

a-- 



j^ 



POEMS, 



BY 



WILLIAM COWPER, ESa. 

TOOETHEU WITH HIS 

POSTHUMOUS POETRY, 

AND 

A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 
BY JOHN JOHNSON, LL. D. 



THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 



NEW EDITION. 

BOSTON 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO., 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 



1849. 



CONTENTS 



L 



Stock in 



THE FIRST VOLUME. 

Table Talk, 

Progress of Errour, 

Truth, 

Expostulation, 

Hope, 

Charity, 

Conversation, 

Retirement, 

The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at 

Essex, . - - 

Sonnet to Henry Cowper, Esq. 
Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin, 
On Mrs. Montagu's Feather-Hangings, 
Verses, supposed to be written by Alexander 

Selkirk during his abode in the Island of 

Juan Fernandez, . . - 

On the promotion of Edward Thurlow, Esq. to 

the Chancellorship of England, 
Ode to Peace, ... 

Human Frailty, ... 

The Modern Patriot, 
On observing some names of little Note recorded 

in the Biographia Britannica, 
Report of an adjudged Case, not to be found in 

any of the Books, 
On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library, 
On the Same, . - - 

The Love of the World reproved. 
On the death of Lady Throckmorton's Bulfinch, 
The Rose, - . - . 

The Doves, . - - - 

A Fable, .... 



n 

32 

49 

65 

85 

106 

124 

149 

171 
174 
175 

176 



- 178 

- 180 

- 181 

- 182 

- 183 

- 184 

ibid. 
186 

- 187 

- 188 
189 

. 190 

- 192 

- 194 





4 CONTENTS. 








A. Comparison, 


. 


195 




Aiiother, addressed to a young Lady, 


- 


196 




The Poet's New Year's Gift, 


- 


ibid. 




Ode to Apollo, 


. 


197 




Pairing Time anticipated, a Fable, 


- 


198 




The Dog and the Water Lily, 


- 


201 




The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant, 


202 




The Shrubbery, 


- 


204 




The Winter Nosegay, 


- 


205 




Mutual Forbearance necessary to the 


Iiappiness 






of the Married State, - 


. 


206 




The Negro's Complaint, 


- 


203 




Pity for poor Africans, 


. 


210 




The Morning Dream, 


- 


212 




The Nightingale and Glow-worm, 




213 




On a Goldfinch starved to death in his Cage, 


215 




The Pine Apple and the Bee, 


. 


216 




Horace, Book IL Ode X. - 


. 


217 




A reflection on the foregoing Ode, 




218 




The Lily and the Rose, 




219 




Idem, Latine Redditum, - 




220 




The Poplar Field, - 




221 




Idem, Latine Redditum, - 




222 




Votum, - - 




223 




Translations from Vincent Bourne , 






Cicindela, - - 




223 




The Glow-worm, 




224 




Cornicula, - - - - 




225 




The Jackdaw, 




226 




Ad Gr ilium. Anacreonticum, - 




327 




The Cricket, 




229 




Simile agit in simile, 




230 




The Parrot, 


^ 


231 




Translation of Prior's Chloe and Euphelia, 


?i3^ 




The History of John Gilpin, 


' 


233 




Epistle to an afflicted Protestant Lady 


vn France, 


242 




To the Rev. W. C. Unwrn, 




244 



^ 



PREFACE 

TO 

THE FIRST VOLUME. 



When an Author, by appearing in print, requests 
an audience of the publick, and is upon the point of 
speaiiing for himself, whoever presumes to step before 
him with a preface, and to say, '' Nay, but hear me 
first," should have something worthy of attention to 
offer, or he will be justly deemed officious and imper 
tinent. The judicious reader has, probably upon other 
occasions, been beforehand with me in this reflection : 
and I am not very willing it should now be applied to 
me, however I may seem to expose myself to the dan 
ger of it. But the thought of having my own name 
perpetuated in connexion with the name in the title 
page, is so pleasing and flattering to the feelings of my 
heart, that I am content to risk something for the 
gratification. 

This Preface is not designed to commend the Poems 
to which it is prefixed. My testimony would be in- 
sufficient for those who are not qualified to judge pro- 
perly for themselves, and unnecessary to those who 
are. Besides, the reasons which render it improper 
and unseemly for a man to celebrate his own perform- 
ances, or those of his nearest relatives, will have some 
1* 



6 PREFACE 

influence in suppressing- much of what he might other- 
wise wish to say in favour of a friend, when that friend 
is indeed an alter idem, and excites almost the same 
emotions of sensibility and affection as he feel for 
himself 

It is very probable that these Poems may come into 
the hands of some persons, in whom the sight of the 
author's name will awaken a recollection of incidents 
and scenes, which, tlirough length of time, they had al- 
most forgotten They will be reminded of one, who 
was once the companior of their chosen hours, and 
who set out with them in early life in the paths which 
lead to literary honours, to influence and affluence, 
with equal prospects of success. But he was suddenly 
and powerfully withdrawn from those pursuits, and he 
left tliem without regret ; yet not till he had sufficient 
opportunity of counting the cost and of knowing the 
value of what he gave up. If happiness could have 
been found in classical attainments, in an elegant taste, 
in the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and in the 
esteem and converse of such persons as in these re- 
spects were mo t congenial with hnnself, he would have 
been happy. But he was not — He wondered (as thou- 
sands in a similar situation still do) that he should con- 
tinue dissatisfied, with all the means apparently 
conducive to satisfaction within his reach. But in due 
time the cause of his disappointment was discovered 
to him ; he had lived without God in the world In a 
memorable hour the wisdom which is from above visit- 
ed his heart. Then he felt himself a wanderer, and 
then he found a guide. Upon this change of views, a 
change of plan and conduct followed of course. When 
he saw the bu8y and the gay world in its true light, he 



PREFACE. 7 

left, it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, when called 
lo liberty, leaves iiis dungeon. Not that he became a 
Cynick or an Ascetick — A heart filled with love to God 
will assuredly breathe benevolence to men. But the 
turn of his temper inclining him to rural life, he in- 
dulged it, and the Providence of God evidently prepar- 
ing his way and marking out liis retreat, he retired 
into the country. By these steps the good hand of 
God, unknown to me, was providing for me one of the 
principal blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsellor, 
in whose company for almost seven years, though 
we were seldom seven successive waking hours sepa- 
rated, I always found new pleasure. A friend wlio was 
not only a comfort to myself, but a blessing to the af- 
fectionate poor people, among whom I then lived. 

Some time after inclination had thus removed him 
from the hurry and bustle of life, he was still more se- 
cluded by a long indisposition, and my pleasure was 
succeeded by a proportionable degree of anxiety and 
concern. But a hope that the God whom he served 
vvould support him under his affliction, and at length 
vouchsafe him a happy deliverance, never forsook me. 
The desirable crisis, I trust, is now nearly approaching. 
The dawn, the presage of returning day, is already ar- 
rived. He is again enabled to resume his pen, and 
some of the first fruits of his recovery are hero pre- 
sented to the publick. In his principal subjects, the 
same acumen, "which distinguished him in the early 
period of life, is happily employed in illustrating and 
enforcing the truths of which he received such deep and 
unalterable impressions in his maturer years. His Ba- 
tire, if it may be called so, is benevolent, (like the ope* 
rations of the skilful and humane surgeon, who wounds 



8 PREFACE. 

only to heal,) dictated by a just regard for the honour 

of God, and indignant grief excited by tlie profligacy 

of the age, and a tender compassion for the souls of 

men. 

His favourite topicks are least insisted on in the 
piece entitled Table Talk ; which, therefore, with re- 
gard to the prevailing taste, and that those who are go- 
verned by it may not be discouraged at the very thresh- 
old from proceeding further, is placed first. In most 
of the large Poems which follow, his leading design is 
more explicitly avowed and pursued. He aims to com- 
municate his own perceptions of the truth, beauty, and 
influence of the religion of the Bible — A religion which 
however discredited by the misconduct of many who 
have not renounced the Christian name, proves itself, 
when rightly understood, and cordially embraced, to 
be the grand desideratum, which alone can reheve the 
mind of man from painful and unavoidable anxieties, 
inspire it with stable peace and solid hope, and furnish 
those motives and prospects, which, in the present 
state of things, are absolutely necessary to produce a 
conduct worthy of a rational creature, distinguished by 
a vastness of capacity which no assemblage of earthly 
good can satisfy, and by a principle and pre-intimation 
of immortality. 

At a time when hypothesis and conjecture in philo- 
sophy are so justly exploded, and little is considered as 
deserving the name of knowledge which will not 
sta.nd the test of experiment, the very use of the term 
experimental, in religious concernments, is by too 
many unhappily rejected with disgust. But we well 
know, that they who affect to despise the inward feel- 
ings which religious persons speak of, and to treat 



PREFACE 9 

them as enthusiasm and folly, have inward feelings of 
their own, which, though they would, they cannot sup- 
press. We have been too long in the secret ourselves, 
to account the proud, the ambitious, or the voluptuous, 
happy. We must lose the remembrance of what we 
once were, before we can believe that a man is satis- 
fied with himself, merely because he endeavours to 
appear so. A smile upon the face is often but a mask 
worn occasionally and in company, to prevent, if possi- 
ble, a suspicion of what at the same time is passing in 
the heart. We know that there are people who seldom 
smile when they are alone ; who, therefore, are glad to 
hide themselves in a throng from the violence of their 
own reflections ; and who, while by their looks and 
language they wish to persuade us they are happy, 
would be glad to change their conditions with a dog. 
But in defiance of all their efforts, they continue to 
think, forebode, and tremble. This we know, for it 
has been our own state, and therefore we know how 
to commiserate it in others. From this state the Bible 
relieved us. When we were led to read it with atten- 
tion, we found ourselves described. We learned the 
causes of our inquietude — We were directed to a me- 
thod of relief — we tried, and we were not disappointed. 

DEUS NOBIS H^C OTIA FECIT. 

We are now certain, that the gospel of Christ is the 
power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth 
It has reconciled us to God, and to ourselves ; to our. 
duty, and our situation. It is the balm and cordial of 
the present life, and a sovereign antidote against the 
fears of death. 

Sed hactenus hcec. Some smaller pieces upon lesa 



10 PREFACE, 

important subjects close the volume. Not one of them 
I believe, was written with a view to publication, but I 
was unwilling thev should be omitted. 

JOHN NEWTON. 

Charles* Square, Hoxton, 

February 18, 1782. 



TABLE TALK. 



Si te forth mem gravis uret sarcina charia, 
Mjicito Hor. lib. i. Epist. 13. 

./?. You told me, I remember, glory, built 
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt ; 
The deeds that men admire as half divine, 
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. 
Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears 5 
The laurel that the very lightning spares ; 
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, 
And eats into his bloody sword like rust. 

B. I grant, that men continuing what they aie, 
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war ; 10 

And never meant the rule should be applied 
To him that fights with justice on his side. 

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, 
Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse, 
Who, with a courage of unshaken root, 15 

In honour's field advancing his firm foot, 
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, 
And will prevail, or perish in her cause. 
'Tis to the virtues of such men, man owes 
His portion in the good that Heav'n bestows. 20 

And when recording History displays 
Feats of renown, though \\Tought in ancient days, 
Tells of a. few stout hearts, that fought and died 
Where duty plac'd them — at their country's side j 
The man, that is not mov'd with what he reads, 2S 
That takes not fire at their heroick deeds. 
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave. 
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. 



12 TABLE TALK. 

But let eternal infamy pursue 
! The wretch to naught but his ambition true, 30 

i Who, for the sake of filling with one blast 

The post horns of all Europe, lays her waste 

Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock, 

To see a people scatter'd like a flock, 

Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, 35 

With all the savage thirst a tiger feels : 

Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette 

Chief monster that has plagu'd the nations yet. 

The globe and sceptre in such hands misplac'd, 

Those ensigns of dominion, how disgrac'd ! 40 

The glass that bids man mark the fleeting hour, 

And Death's own sithe would better speak his pow'r ; 

Then grace the bony phantom in their stead 

With the king's shouiderknot and gay cockade ; 

Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, 45 

The same their occupation and success. 

Jl. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man j 
Kings do but reason on the self-same plan : 
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, 
Who tliinlc, or seem to think, man made for them. 50 

B. Seldom, alas ! the power of iogick reigns, 
Witli much sufficiency in royal brains ; 
Such reas'ninn- falls like an inverted cone. 



Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 1 1 

Man made for kings '. those opticks are but dim, 5fi 

That tell you so — say, rather, they for him. 

That were indeed a king-ennobling thought. 

Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. 

The diadem v/ith mighty projects lin'd, 

To catch renown by ruining mankind, 60 

Is worth, with all its gold and glitt'ring store. 

Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. 

Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good, 

How seldom used, how little understood ! 

To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 68 

Keep vice restrain'd behind a double guard ; 



TABLE TALK. 

To quell the faction that affronts the tlirone, 

By silent magnanimity alone ; 

To nxirse with tender care the thriving arts ; 

Watch ev'ry beam Philosophy imparts ; 70 

To give Religion her unbridled scope, 

Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; 

With close fidelity and love unfeign'd, 

To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; 

Covetous only of a virtuous praise ; 76 

His life a leason to the land he sways ; 

To touch the sword with conscientious awe, 

Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw ; 

To sheath it in the peace-restoring close 

W^ith joy beyond what victory bestows ; 80 

Blest country where these kingly glories shine ! 

Blest England, if this happiness be thine ! 

A. Guard what you say ; the patriotick tribe 
AVill sneer and charge you with a bribe. — B. A bribe ? 
The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, 85 

To lure me to the baseness of a lie ; 
And, of all lies, (be that one poet's boast.) 
The Ue that flatters I abhor the most. 
Those arts be theirs, who hate his gentle reign, 
But he that loves him has no need to fain. 90 

A. Your smooth eulogium to one crown address'd. 
Seems to imply a censure on the rest. 

B. Quevedo, as he toils his sober tale, 
Ask'd, when in Kell, to see the royal jail ; 
Approv'd their method in all other things ; 95 
But where, good sir, do you confine your kings .^ 
There, said liis guide — the group is full in viev/. 
Indeed .' — replied the Don — there are but few. 

His black interpreter the charge disdaln'd — 
Few, fellow .' — there are all that ever reign'd. -V'-O 

Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike 
The guilty and not guilty, both alike 
I grant the sarcasm is too severe, 
And we can readily refute it here ; 
Vol,. I. 2 



14 TABLE TALK. 

While Alfred's name, the father of his age, 105 

And the Sixth Edward's grace th' historick page. 

A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all : 
By their owti conduct they must stand or fall 

B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays 
His quit-rent ode, his peppercorn of praise ; 110 
And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, 
Adds, as he can, his tributary mite : 

A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 

A monarch's errors are forbidden game I 

Thus free from censure, overaw'd by fear, 135 

And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear, 

The fleeting forms of majesty engage 

Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage ; 

Then leave their crimes for history to scan, 

And ask with busy scorn, Was tliis the man .'' 120 

I pity kings, whom Worship Vv'aits upon, 
Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; 
Before whose infant eyes the flatt'rer bows. 
And binds a wreath about their baby brows ; 
Whom Education stiffens into state, 125 

And Death awakens IVom that dream too late. 
Oh ! if Servility with supple knees. 
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please ; 
If smooth Dissimulation, skill'd to grace 
A devil's purpose with an angel's face ; 130 

If smiling peeresses, and simp'ring peers. 
Encompassing his throne a few short years ; 
If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, 
That wants no driving, and disdains the lead ; 
If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks, 135 

Playing, at beat of drum, tlieir martial pranks, 
Should'ring and standing as if stuck to stone. 
While condescending majesty looks on ; 
If monarchy consist in such base things, 
Sighing, I say again, I pity kings 1 14C 

To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, 
E'en when he labours for his country's good, 



TABLE TALK. 15 

To see a band call'd patriot for no cause, 
But that they catch at popular applause, 
Careless of all the anxiety he feels, 145 

Hook disappointment on the publick wheels j 
With all their flippant fluency of tongue, 
Most confident, when palpably most wrong ; 
If this be kingly, then farewell for me 
All kingship ; and may I be poor and free ! 15C 

To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs, 
To which th' unwash'd artificer repairs, 
T' indulge Iris genius after long fatigue, 
JBy diving into cabinet intrigue ; 

(For what kings deem'd a toil, as well they may, 155 
To him is relaxation and mere play,) 
To win no praise, when well-wrought plans prevail, 
But to be rudely censur'd when they fail ; 
To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend, 
And in reality to find no friend ; 160 

If he indulge a cultivated taste, 
His gall'ries with the works of art well graced. 
To hear it call'd extravagance and waste ; 
If these attendants, and if such as these, 
Must follow royalty, then welcome ease : 165 

However humble and confin'd the sphere, 
Happy the state that has not these to fear. 
Ji. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have 
dwelt 
On situations that they never felt, 
Start up sagacious, cover'd with the dust 170 

Of dreaming study and pedantick rust, 
And prate and preach about what others prove. 
As if the world and tliey were hand and glove. 
Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares ; 
They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs ; 175 
Poets, of all men, ever least regret 
Increasing taxes, and the nation's debt. 
Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse 
The mighty plan, oracular in verse, 



16 TABLE TALK. 

No bard, howe'er majcstick, old or new, '80 

Shoiild claim iny fix'd attention more than you. 

B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay 
To turn tlie course of Helicon that way ; 
Nor would the Nine consent the sacred tide 
Should purl amidst the trafiick of Cheapside, 185 

Or tinkle in Change Alley, to amuse 
The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. 

Ji. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme 
To themes more pertinent, if less subhme. 
When ministers and ministerial arts; 190 

Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; 
When admirals extoU'd for standing still, 
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill ; 
Gen'rals v/ho will not conquer when they may, 
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay ; 195 
When Freedom, w^mided almost to despair, 
Though Discontent alone can find out where ; 
When themes like these employ the poet's tongue, 
I hear as mute as if a syren sung. 

Or tell me, if you can, what pow'r maintains 200 

A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains ? 
That were a theme might animate the dead. 
And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 

B. The cause, tho' worth the search, may yet eludo 
Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 2*/5 

They take perhaps a well-directed aim, 
Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
Lib'ral in all things else, yet Nature here 
With stern severity deals out the year. 
Winter invades the spring, and often pours 210 

A chilling flood on siunmer's drooping flow'rs , 
Unwelcome vapours qusnch autumnal beams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams ; 
The peasants urge their harvest, })ly the fork 
With double toil, and shiver at their work ; 215 

Thus with a rigour, for his good design 'd, 
She rears her fav'rite man of all mankind. 



lAxil-iiii j.-rkxj;>.. 17 

His form robust ana of eiastick tone, 

Proportion'd well, half muscle and half bone, 

Supplies with warm activity and force 220 

A mind well lodg'd, and masculine of course. 

Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires, 

And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. 

Patient of constitutional control. 

He bears it with meek manliness of soul ; ^5 

But, if Authority grow wanton, v/o 

To him that treads upon his free-born toe ; 

One step beyond the bound'ry of the laws 

Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause. 

Thus proud prerogative, not much rever'd, 230 

Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard ; 

And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 

Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away. 

Born in a climate softer far than ours, 
Not form'd like us, with such Herculean powr's, 235 
The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, 
Is always happy, reign whoever may, 
And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away. 
He drinks his simple bev'rage with a gust ; 240 

And, feasting on an onion and a crust. 
We never feel the alacrity and joy 
With which lie shouts and carols Vive le Roi ! 
Fill'd with as much true merriment and glee, 
As if he heard his king say — ' Slave, be free !' 245 

Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows. 
Less on exteriour things than most suppose. 
Vigilant over all that he has made. 
Kind Providence attends with gracious aid ; 
Bids equity throughout his works prevail, ^ 250 

And weighs the nations in an even scale j 
He can encourage slav'ry to a smile. 
And fill with discontent a British isle. 

A. Freeman and slave, then, if the case be such, 
Stand on a level ; and you prove too much : 255 

2-^ 



18 TABLE TALK. 

If all men indiscriminately share 

His fost'ring power, and tutelary care, 

As well be yok'd by Despotism's hand, 

As dwell at large in Britam's charter'dland. 

B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to show, 2G0 
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
The mind attains beneath her happy reign 
The growth, that Nature meant she should attain > 
The varied fields of science, ever new, 
Op'ning, and wider op'ning, on her view, 265 

She ventures onward with a prosp'rous force, 
While no base fear impedes her in her course. 
ReUgion, richest favour of the skies, 
Stands most reveal'd before the freeman's eyes ; 
No shades of superstition blot the day, 270 

Liberty chases all that gloom away ; 
The soul emancipated, unoppress'd, 
Free to prove all things, and hold fast the best, 
! Learns much ; and to a thousand hst'ning minds 

Communicates with joy the good she finds ; 275 

Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show 
His manly forehead to the fiercest foe ; 
Glorious in war, but for tlie sake of peace, 
His spirits rising as his toils inciease, 
Guards well w^hat arts and industry have won, 280 

And Freedom clai^ns him for her first-born son. 
Slaves fight for what were better cast away — 
The chain that binds them, and a tyrant's sway ; 
But they that fight for freedom, undertake 
The noblest cause mankind can have at stalie 285 

[leligion, virtue, truth, whate'er we call 
A blessing — ^freedom is the pledge of all. 
O Liberty ! the pris'ners pleasing dream, 
The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme ; 
I i Genius is thine, and thuu art Fancy's nurse ; 290 

j \ ' Lost without thee th" ennobling pow'rs of verse ; 

I [ Ff croick song from thy free touch acquires 

j ; Its clearest tons, the rapture it inspires. 



TABLE TALK. 19 

Place me -^vhere Winter breathes liis keenest air, 
And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 205 

And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet, 
In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. 

A. Sing where you please; in such a cause i grant 
An English poet's privilege to rant ; 
But is not Freedom — at least, is not ours, 300 
Too apt to plp.y the wanton with her pow'rs, 
Grow frealiish, and, o'erleaping every mound. 
Spread anarchy and terrour ail around ? 

B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horse 
For bounding and curvetting in his course ? 303 
Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, 
He break away, and seek the distant plain ? 
No. His high mettle, under good control, 
Gives him Olympick speed, and shoots him to the goal. 

Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts ; 31C 

Let magistrates alert perform their parts. 
Not skulk or put on a prudential mask, 
As if their duty were a desperate task ; 
Let active Lav.-s apply the needful curb, I 

To guard the Peace, tha,t Riot would disturb ; 315 

And Liberty, preserv'd from wild excess, 
Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
When Tumult lately burst his prison door. 
And sot plebeian thousands in a roar ; 
When he usurp 'd AutJiority's just place, 320 

And dar'd to look his master in the face : 
When the rude rabble's v-i-atchword was — destroy, 
And blazing London seem'd a second Troy ; 
Liberty blush'd, and hung her drooping head, 
Beheld their progress with the deepest dread ; 325 

Blush'd that effects like these she should produce. 
Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose 
She loses in such storms her very name, 
And fierce Licentiousness should bear the blame. 

Incomparable gem ! thy worth untold ; 330 

Cheap, tho' blood-bought, and thrown away when sold ; 



20 TABLE TALK. 

May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend 

Betray thee, while professing to defend ! 

Prize it, ye ministers ; ye monarchs, spare ; 

Ye patriots, guard it with a miser's care. 335 

A. Patriots, alas ! the few that have been found, 
Wliere most they flourish, upon English ground, 
The country's need have scantily supplied, 

And the last left the scene, when Cliatham died. 

B. Not so — the virtue still adorns our age, 340 
Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 

In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 

Liberty taught him her Athenian strain : 

She cloth'd him with authority and awe, 

Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 345 

His speech, his form, his action, full of grace. 

And all his country beaming in his face, 

He stood, as some inimitable hand 

Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 

No sycophant or slave, that dar'd oppose 350 

Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 

And ev'ry venal stickler for the yoke 

Felt himself crush'd at the first word he spoke. 

Such men are rais'd to station and command. 
When Providence means mercy to a land. 355 

He speaks, and they appear : to him they owe 
Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow ; 
To manage with address, to seize with pow'r 
The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 

So Gideon earn'd a victory not his o-\vn ; 360 

Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 

Poor England ! thou art a devoted deer. 
Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
Thee nations hunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; 
They swarm around thee, and tliou stand'st at bay. 365 
Unaaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd. 
Once Chatham sav'd thee ; but who saves thee rcxt .' 
Alas ! the tide of pleasure sweeps along 
All, that should be the boast of British song. 



TABLE TALK. 21 

'Tis not the wreath, that once adorn'd thy brow, 370 
The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. 
Our ancestry, a gallant, Christian race. 
Patterns of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace, 
Confos'd a God ; they kneel'd before they fought, 
And prais'd him in the victories he wrought. 375 

Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth , 
Courage ungrac'd by these, affronts the skies, 
Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 
Tne stream, that feeds the well-spring of the heart, 380 
Not more invigorates life's noblest part, 
Than Virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
The pow'rs that Sin has brought to a decline. 

A. Th' inestimable Estimate of Brown 

Rose like a paper kite, and charm'd the town ; 385 
But measures, plann'd and executed well, 
Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell. 
He trod the very self-same ground you tread, 
And Victory refuted all he said. 

B. And yet his judgment was not fram'd amiss ; 390 
Its errour, if it err'd, was merely this — 

He thought the dying hour already come, 
And a complete recov'ry struck him dumb. 

But that efieminacy, folly, lust. 
Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must j 395 

And that a nation shamefully debas'd 
Will be despis'd and trampled on at last. 
Unless sweet Penitence her pow'rs renew ; 
Is truth, if history itself be true. 

There is a time and Justice marks the date, 400 

For long-forbearing clemency to wait ; 
That hour elaps'd th' incurable revolt 
Is punish'd, and down comes the thunderbolt. 
If mercy then put by the threat'ning blow, 
Must she perform the same kind office now ? 405 

May she ? and if offended Heav'n be still 
Accessible, and pray'r prevail, she will . 



22 TABLE TALK. 

'Tib not, however, insolence and noise, 

The tempest of tmniiltuarj joys, 

Nor is it yet de'-jpondence and dismay 4J0 

Will win her visits, or engage her stay ; 

Pray'r only, and the penitential tear. 

Can call lier smiling down, and fix her here. 

But when a country, (one that I could name,) 
In prostitution sinks the sense of shame ; 415 

When infamous Venality, grown bold. 
Writes on his bosom, To he let or sold ; 
When Perjury, that Heavn-defying vice, 
Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest pricS; 
Stamps God's own name u^'on a lie just made, 420 
To turn a penn}'^ in the way of trade ; 
When Av'rice starves, (and never Indes his face,) 
Two or three millions of the human race. 
And not a tongue inquires, how, where, or when, 
Though conscience will have twinges now and then ; 
When profanation of the sacred cause, 426 

In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, 
Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fall'n and lost, 
In all, but wars against that title most ; 
What follows next let cities of great name, 430 

And regions long since desolate, proclaim. 
Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome, 
Speak to the present times, and times to come ; 
They cry aloud in ev'ry careless ear, 
Stop while you may ; suspend your mad career ; 435 
O learn from our example and our fate, 
Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late. 

Not only Vice disposes and prepares 
The miiid, that slmnbers sweetly in her snares, 
To stoop to T3'^ranny'b usurp'd command, 440 

And bend her polish'd neck beneath his hand, 
(A dire effect, by one of Nature's laws, 
Urchangeabiy connected with its cause ;) 
But Providence himself will intervene, 
To throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene 445 



TABLE TALK. 23 

All are liis instruments ; each form of war, 
What bums at home, or threatens from afar : 
Nature ui arms, her elements at strife. 
The storms that overset the joys of hfe, 
Are but his rods to scourge a guiity land, 450 

And waste it at the bidding of his hand. 
He gives the Avord, and Mutiny soon roars 
In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores ; 
The standards of all nations are unfurl'd ; 
She has one foe, and that one foe the world. 455 

And, if he doom that people with a frown, 
And mark them with a seal of wrath press'd down, 
Obduracy takes place : callous and tough, 
The reprobated race grows judgment proof ; 
Earth shakes beneath them, and Heav'n roars above; 460 
But nothing scares them from the course they love. 
To the lascivious pipe and wanton song, 
That charm dov/n fear, they frolick it along, 
With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
Down to the gulf, from which is no return. 465 

They trust in navies, and their navies fail — 
God's curse can cast av/ay ten thousand sail ! 
They trust in armies, and their courage dies ; 
In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies , 
But all they trust in, withers, as it must, 470 

When He commands, in whom they place no trust. 
Vengeance at last pours down upon tlieir coast 
A long despis'd, but now victorious, host ; 
Tyranny sends the chain, that must abridge 
The noble sweep of all their privilege ; 475 

Gives liberty the last, the mortal shock : 
Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock. 

A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach. 
Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach ? 

B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire 430 
The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, 

Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal, 
Whato'ei the theme, that others never feel. 



24 TABLF TALK. 

If human woes her soft atl.ention claim, 

A tender sympatliy pervades the frame ; 485 

She pours a sensibility divine 

Along the nerves of every feeling line. 

But if a aeed not tamely to be borne 

Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, 

The strings are swept v/ith sucli a pow'r so loud, 490 

The storm of musick shakes th' astonish'd crowd. 

So, when remote futurity is brought 

Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 

A ternble sagacity informs 

The poet's heart ; he looks to distant storms *, 495 

He hears the thunder ere the tempest low'rs j 

And, arm'd with strength surpassing human pow'rs, 

Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 

And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 

Hence in a Roman mouth, the gracf »al name 500 

Of prophet and of poet was the same ; 

Hence, British poets, too, the priesthood shar'd. 

And every hallow'd druid was a bard. , 

But no prophetick fires to me belong ; I 

I play with syllables, and sport in song. 505 

Jl. At Westminster, where little poets strive 
To set a distich upon six and five. 
Where Discipline helps th' op'ning buds of sense, 
And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
I was a poet too : but modern taste 510 

Is so refin'd, and delicate, and chaste. 
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
Thus, all success depending on an ear. 
And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 515 

If sentiment were sacrific'd to soimd. 
And truth cut short to make a period round, 
I judg'd a man of sense could scarce do worse, 
Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. 

B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, 520 

And some wits flag through fear of losing it 



TABLE TALK. 25 

Give me the line that pioug-hs its stately course 
Like a proud swan, conqu'ring the stream by force ; 
That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 525 

When Labour and when Dulness club in hand, 
Like the two figures a.t St. Dunstan's, stand, 
Beating alternately in measur'd time, 
The clock-work tintinabulum of rhyme. 
Exact and regular the sounds will be } 5t30 

But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 

From him who rears a poem lank and long, 
To him who strains his all into a song ; 
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, 
AH birks and braes, though he was never there ; 535 
Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains. 
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains ; 
A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke — 
An art contriv'd to advertise a joke. 
So that the jest is clearly to be seen, 540 

Not in the words — but in the gap between : 
Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ 
To substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 

To dally much with subjects mean and low 
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. 545 

Neglected talents rust into decay. 
And ev'ry effort ends in pushpin play. 
Tlie man that means success should soar above 
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 
Else, summoning the muse to such a theme, 550 

The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream. 
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then — 
Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. 
As if the poet, purposing to wed, 
Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. 555 

Ages claps'd ere Homer's lamp appear 'd, 
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard, 
To carry Nature's lengths unlcnown before. 
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. 

Vol. L 3 



26 TABLE TALK. 

Thus Genius rose and set at order'd times, 560 

And shot a day-spring into distant climes, 

Ennobling ev'ry region that he chose ; 

He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 

And, tedious years of Oothick darkness pass'd, 

Eraerg'd all splendour in our isle at last. 565 

Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main. 

Then show far off their shining plumes again. 

A. Is genius only found in epick lays ? 
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. 

Make their heroick pow'rs your own at once, 570 

Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. 

B. These were the chief: each interval of night 
Was grac'd with many an undulating light. 

In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 

A meteor or a star ; in these the sun. 575 

The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, 
While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. 
Like him unnotic'd I, and such as I, 
Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly ; 
Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land, 580 

An ell or two of prospect we command ; 
But never peep beyond the thorny bound. 
Or oaken fence that hems the paddock round. 

In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart 
Had faded, poetry was not an art : 585 

Language above all teaching, or, if taught, 
Only by gratitude and glowing thought. 
Elegant as simplicity, and warm 
As ecstasy, unmsmacled by form, 

Not prompted, as in our degen'rate days, 590 

By low ambition and the thirst of praise, 
Was natural as is the flowing stream, 
And yet magnificent — A God the theme ! 
That theme on Earth exhausted, though above 
'Tis found as everlasting as his love, 595 

Man lavish'd all his thoughts on human thingcj — 
The feais of heroes, and the wrath of Kings ) 



TABLE TALK. 27 

But still, while virtue kindled his delight, 

The song was mo-ral, and so far was right. 

Twas thus till Luxury seduc'd the mind GOO 

To joys less innocent, as loss refin'd ; 

Then Genius danc'd a bacchanal ; he crown'd 

The brimming goblet, seiz'd the thyrsus, bound 

His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field 

Ot wild imagination, and there reel'd, 605 

The victim of his own lascivious fires, 

And, dizzy with delight, profan'd the sacred wires. 

Ajiacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome 

This bedlam part, and others nearer home. 

When Cromwell fought for pow'r, and while he reign'd 

The proud protector of the power he gain'd, 611 

Rehgion harsh, intolerant, austere. 

Parent of manners like herself severe. 

Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, 

Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace ; 615 

The dark and sullen humour of the time 

Judg'd e v'ry effort of the muse a crime ; 

Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast. 

Was lumber in an age so void of taste : 

But when the second Charles assum'd the sway, 620 

And arts reviv'd beneath a softer day. 

Then like a bow long forc'd into a curve. 

The mind, releas'd from too constrain'd a nerve, 

Flew to its first position with a spring, 

That made the vaulted roofs of Pleasure ring. 625 

His court, the dissolute and hateful school 

Of Wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, 

Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 

With brutal lust as ever Circe made. 

From these a long succession, in a rage 630 

Of rank obscenity debauch'd their age : 

Nor ceas'd till ever anxious to redress 

The abuses of her sacred charge, the pr^^g, 

The muse instructed a well-nurtur'd train 

Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, 635 



28 TABLE TALK. 

And claim the palm for purity of song, 

That Lewdness had usurp 'd and worn so long. 

Then decent Pleasantry, and sterling Sense, 

That neither gave nor Avould endure offence, 

Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen, G40 

The puppy pack, that had defil'd the scene. 

In front of these came Addison. In him 
Humour in holiday and sightly trim, 
Sublimity and attick taste combin'd, 
To polish, furnish, and deUght the mind. 645 

Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 
In verse well disciplin'd, complete, compact, 
Gave virtue and morality a grace, 
That quite eclipsing Pleasure's painted face. 
Levied a tax of wonder and applause, 650 

E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. 
But he, (his musical finesse was such. 
So nice his ear, so delicate his touch,) 
Made poetry a mere mechanick art ; 
And ev'ry warbler has his tune by heart. 655 

Nature hnparting her satirick gift, 
Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swifl, 
With droll sobriety they rais'd a smile 
At Folly's cost, themselves mimov'd the while. 
That constellation set, the world in vain 660 

Must hope to look upon their like again. 

A. Are we then left — B. Not wholly in the dark ; 
Wit now^ and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, 
Sufficient to redeem the modern race 
From total night and absolute disgrace. 665 

While servile trick and imitative knack 
Confine the million in the beaten track. 
Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road. 
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 

Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one ; 670 

Short his career, indeed, but ably run ; 
Churchill, himself unconscious of his pow'rs, 
la penury consum"d his idle hours ; 



TABLE TALK. 29 

And lilce a scatter'd seed at random sown, 
Was left to spring by vigour of liis own. 675 

Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
And dint of genius to an affluent lot. 
He laid his head in Luxury's soft lap, 
And took, too often, tliere his easy nap. 
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, C80 

'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. 
Surly, and slovenly, and bold, and coarse. 
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit, 
Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 685 

He struck the lyre in such a careless mood. 
And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command. 
He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
Nature, exerting an unwearied pow'r, 690 

Forms, ©pens, and gives scent to ev'ry flower ; 
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
The dancing Naiads tln-ough the dewy meads. 
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
With musick, modulating all their notes ; 695 

And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown, 
With artless airs and concerts of her own ; 
But seldom, (as if fearful of expense,) 
Vouchsafes to man a poefs just pretence — 
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 700 

Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; 
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky. 
Brings colours dipp'd in Heav'n, that never die j 
A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 705 

And as the sun in rising beauty dress'd, 
Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
And marks whatever clouds may interpose, 
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; 
And eye like his to catch the distant goal ; >'iO 

Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
3" 



30 TAbLE TALK. 

Like his to shed illuminating rays 

On ev'ry scene and subject it surveys : 

Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name, 

And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 715 

Pity Religion has so seldom found 
A skilful guide into poetick ground ! 
The flow'rs would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, 
And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. 
Virtue indeed, meets many a rhyming friend, 720 

And many a compliment politely penn'd ) 
But, unattir'd in that becoming vest 
Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd. 
Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, 
A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn. 725 

The shelves are full, all other themes are sped } 
Hackneyd and worn to the last flimsy thread, 
Satire has long since done his best ; and curst 
And loathsome ribaldr}^ has done his worst ; 
Fancy has sported all her pow'rs away 730 

In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ; 
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, 
Whate'er we write, we bring forth notliingnew. 
Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, 
Touch'd w^ith a coal from Heav'n, assume the lyre, 735 
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, 
With more than mortal musick on his tongue. 
That He, who died below, and reigns above, 
Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. 

For, after all, if merely to beguile, 740 

l^y flowing numbers, and a flov/'ry style. 
The tedium that the lazy rich endure, 
Which now and then sweet poetry may cure , 
Or, if to see the name of idle self, 
Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf, 745 
To float a bubble on the brsath of Fame, 
Prompt his endeavour and engage liis aim, 
Debas'dto servile purposes or pride. 
How ar • the pow'rs of genius misapplied ! 



TABLE TALK. 31 

The gift whose office is the Giver's praise, 750 

To trace him in his word, his works, his w&ys ' 
Then spread the ricii discov'ry, and invite 
Manldnd to share in the divine doUght, 
Distorted from its use and just design, 
To make the pitiful possessor shine, 75R 

To purchase at the fool-frequented fair 
Of Vanity, a wreath for self to wear. 
Is profanation of the basest kind — 
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 759 

j9. Hail, Sternhold, then ; and, Hopkins, hail ! — B. 
If ^att'ry, folly, lust, employ the pen ; [Amen. 

If acrimony, slander, and abuse, 
Give it a charge to blacken and traduce ; 
Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's ease, 
With all that fancy can invent to please, 765 

Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall. 
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. 

.■3. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetick tribe, 
To dash the pen through all tliat you proscribe. 

B. No matter — we could shift when they were not ; 
And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. 771 



THE 

PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 



Si quid loquar audiendum....Hor. Lib. iv. Od. 2. 

SING, muse, (if such a theme, so dark, so long, 
May find a muse to grace it with a song,) 
By what imseen and unsuspected arts, 
The serpent Errour twines round human hearts ; 
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flow'ry shades, 5 
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, 
The pois'nous, black, insinuating worm 
Successfully conceals her loathsome form. 
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine, 
Coimsel and caution from a voice like mine ! 10 

Truths, that the theorist could never reach, 
And observation taught me, I would teach. 

Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills, 
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills, 
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend, 15 

Can trace her mazy windings to their end ; 
Discern tlie fraud beneath the specious lure. 
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure. 
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear, 
Falls soporifick on the listless ear ; 20 

Like quicksilver, the rhet'rick they display 
Shines as it runs, but grasp'd at slips away. 

Plac'd for his trial on this bustling stage, 
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age, 
Free in his will to choose or to refuse, 85 

Man may improve tlie crisis or abuse ; 



THE PKOGRESS OF ERROUR 33 

Else on the fatalist's unrighteous plan, 

Say to what bar amenable were man ? 

With nought in charge he could betray no trust ; 

Ami, if he fell, would fall because he must : 30 

If Love reward liim, or if Vengeance strike, 

His recompense is both unjust alike. 

Divine authority within his breast 

Brings ev'ry thought, word, action, to tlie test : 

Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains, 35 

As Reason, or as Passion takes the reins. 

Heav'n from above, and Conscience from witliin, 

Cries in his startled ear — Abstain from sin ! 

The world around solicits his desire, 

And kindles in his soul a treach'rous fire j 40 

While, all his purposes and steps to guard, 

Peace follows Virtue as its sure reward ; 

And Pleasure brings as surely in her train 

Remorse, and Sorrow, and vindictive Pain. 

Man, thus endu'd with an elective voice, 45 

Must be supplied with objects of his clioice ; 
Where'er he turns, enjo3mient and delight, 
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight ; 
Those open on tlie spot their honey 'd store : 
These call him loudly to pursuit of more. 50 

His unexhausted mine the sordid vice 
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price. 
Here various motives his ambition raise — 
Pow'r, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise. 
There Beauty woos him with expanded arms ; 55 

E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms. 

Nor these alone whose pleasures, less refin'd, 
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
Seek to supplant his insxperienc'd youth, 
Or lead him devious from the path of truth ; 60 

Hourly allurements on his passions press, 
Safe in themselves, but dang'rous in th' excess. 

Hark ! how it floats upon tlie dewy air ' 
O, what a dying, dying close was there ! 



34 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

'Tis harmony from yon. sequester'd bow'r, 65 

Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour ! 

Long ere the charioteer of day had run 

His morning course, th' enchantment was begun 

And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 

Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain. 70 

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, 

* That Virtue points to ? Can a life thus spent 

Jjcad to the bliss she promises the wise. 

Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies? 

Ye devotees to your ador'd employ, 75 

Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, 

Jjove makes the musick of the blest above, 

Heav'n's harmony is universal love ; 

And earthly sounds, tho' sweet and well combin'd, 

And lenient as soft opiates to the mind, 80 

Leave Vice and Folly unsubdu'd behind. 

Gray dawn appears ; the sportsman and his train 
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain ; 
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb'ring lairs ; 
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, 85 

For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, 
True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. 
Charg'd with the folly of his life's mad scene. 
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean 
The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays — 90 

'Tis exercise, and healtli, and length of days. 
Again impetuous to the field he flies ; 
Leaps ev'ry fence, but one, there falls and dies ; 
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, 
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. 95 

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, 
Lights of the world, and stars of human race ; 
But if eccentrick ye forsake your sphere. 
Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear ; 
The comet's baneful influence is a dream j 100 

Yours real and pernicious in th' extreme. 
What then ! — are appetites and lusts laid down 
With the same ease that man puts on his gown .'' 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 35 

Will Av'ricc and Concupiscence give place, 
Charm'd by the sounds — Your Rev'rence, or Your 
Grace ? 105 

No. But his own engagement binds him fast ; 
Or, if it does not, brands him to the last. 
What atheists call him — a designing knave, 
A mere church-juggler, hypocrite, and slave. 
Oh, laugh, or mourn with me the rueful jest, 110 

A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest ! 
He from Italian songsters takes liis cue : 
Set Paul to musick, he shall quote him too. 
He takes the field, the master of the pack 
Cries — Well done, saint ! and claps liim on the back. 115 
Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this 
To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss ? 
Himself a wanderer from the narrow way. 
His silly sheep what wonder if they stray ? 
Go, cast your orders at j'our Bishop's feet, 120 

Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth-street ! 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege I no function, but a trade ! 

Occiduus is a pastor of renown } 
When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down, 
With wire and catgut he concludes the day, 126 

Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away. 
The full concerto swells upon your ear ; 
All elbows shake. Look in, and 3'^ou would swear 
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod, 130 

Had summon'd them to serve his golden god, 
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit, 
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer, and flute. 
O fie ! 'tis evangelical and pure : 

Observe each face, how sober and demure 135 

Ecstasy sets her stamp on every mien } 
Chins fall'n and not an eyeball to be seen. 
Still I insist, though musick heretofore 
Has charm'd me much, (not e'n Occiduus more,) 
Love, joy, and peace, make harmony more meet 140 



36 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

For Sabbath ev'nings, and perhaps as sweet. 

Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock 
Resort to this example as a rock ; j 

There stand, and justify the foul abuse \ 

Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse ? 14E 

If apostolick gravity be free 
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we f 
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards 
As inoffensive, what offence in cards ? 
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay, 15f 

Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. 

Oh Italy ! — Thy sabbaths will be soon j 

Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon. \ 

Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, 
Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been, 155 | 

God's worship and the mountebank between. I 

What says the prophet ? Let that day be blest | 

With holiness and consecrated rest. ; 

Pastime and business both it should exclude, : 

And bar the door the moment they intrude } 160 

Nobly distinguish'd above all the six j 

By deeds, in which the world must never mix. I 

Hear him again. He calls it a delight, i 

A day of luxury observ'd aright, ! 

When the glad soul is made Heav'ns welcome guest, i 

Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. 166 

But triflers are engag'd and carmot come j : 

Their answer to the call is — JVoi at hovie. i 

O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, ! 

The painted ta'jlets, dealt and dealt again ! 170 j 

Cards with what rapture, and the polish'd die, I 

The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! j 

Then to the dance, and make the sober moon ' 

Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon> j i 

Blame, cjnick, if you can, quadrille or ball, 175 i I 

The snug close party, or the splendid hall, 
Where night, down-stooping from her ebon throne, 
Views constellations brighter than her own. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 37 

'Tis innocent, and harmless, and vefin'd, 

'The balm of care, Elysium of the mind. 180 

Innocent ! Oh, if venerable Time 

Slain at the foot of pleasure be no crime, 

Then, with his silver beard and magick wand, 

Let Comus rise archbishop of the land ; 

Let him your rubrick and your feasts prescribe, 185 

Grand metropolitan of all the tribe. 
Of manners rough, and coarse athletick cast, 

The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste. 

Rusillus, exquisitely form'd by rule, 

Not of the moral, but the dancing school, 190 

Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone 
I As tragical, as others at his own. 

I He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score, 

i Then kill a constable, and drink five more : 

I But he can draw a pattern, make a tart, 195 

j And has the ladies' etiquette by heart. 

I Go, fool ; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead 

Your cause before a bar you little dread : 
j But know, the law, that bids the drunkard die, 

• Is far too just to pass the trifler by. 200 

I Both baby featur'd, and of infant size, 

I View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyeS; 

i Folly and Injiocence are so alilie, 

The difTrence, though essential, fails to strike ; 
I Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 205 

A simp'rmg count'nance, and a trifling air ; 

But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 

DeHghts us, by engaging our respect. 

Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet, 

Receives from her both appetite and treat ; 210 

But if he play the glutton, and exceed. 

His benefactress blushes at the deed ; 

For Nature, nice, as lib'ral to (^spense. 

Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 

Daniel ate pulse by choice- H3\ample rare ' 215 

Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair. 
Vol. L 4 



38 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan, 

Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan : 

He snuffs far off the anticipated joy ; 

Turtle and ven'son all his thoughts employ ; 220 

Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat, 

Oh. nauseous ! — an emetick for a whet ! 

Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good ? 

Temperance were no virtue if he could. 



That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call, 225 | 

Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all. 
And some, that seem'd to threaten virtue less, 
Still hurtful in th' abuse, or by the excess. 

Is man then only for his torment plac'd 
The centre of delights he may not taste ? 230 j j 

Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear I ! 

The precious stream still purling in his ear, 
Lip deep in what he longs for,. and yet curs'd 
With prohibition, and perpetual thirst ? 
No, wrangler, — destitute of shame and sense, 235 

The precept, that enjoins him abstinence, 
Forbids him none but the licentious joy, 
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy. 
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid 
In every bosom where her nest is made, 240 

Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest. 
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
No pleasure ? Are domestick comforts dead ? 
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled ? 244 
Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame, [fame ? 
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good 
All these belong to virtue, and all prove, 
That virtue has a title to your love. 
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
Stand starv'd at your inhospitable door .'' 250 

Or if yourself, too scantily supplied, 
Need help, let honest industry provide. 
Earn, if you want ; if you aboimd, impart , 
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. 



THE PROGKESS OF ERROUR. 39 

No pleasure ? Has some sickly eastern waste 255 

Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast ? 

Can British Paradise no scenes afford 

To please her sated and indifferent lord ? 

Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run 

Quite to the lees ? And has religion none ? 260 

Brutes capable would tell you 'tis a lie, 

And judge you from the kennel and the sty. 

Delights like these, ye sensual and profane, 

Ye are bid, begg'd, besought to entertain ; 

Call'd to these crystal streams, do ye turn off 265 

Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough ? 

Envy the beast then, on whom Heav'n bestows 

Your pleasures, with no curses in the close. 

Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 270 
Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice, 
Unnerves the moral pov/ers, and mars their use : 
Ambition, av'rice, and the lust of fame, 
And woman, lovely woman, does the same. 
The heart surrender'd to the ruling power 275 

Of some ungovern'd passion every hour, 
Finds by degrees the truths, that once bore sway, 
And all their deep impressions, wear away j 
So coin grows smooth, in trafhck current pass'd, 
Till C33sar"s image is effac'd at last. 280 

The breach, tho' small at first, soon opening wid?. 
In rushes folly with a full-moon tide. 
Then welcome errours of whatever size, 
To justify it by a thousand lies. 

As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, S85 

And hides the ruin that it feeds upon ; 
So sophistry cleaves close to and protects 
Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects. 
Mortals, whose pleasures are their only care, 
First wish to be impos'd on, and then are. 290 

And, lest the fulsome artifice should fail, 
Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil. 



40 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

Not more industrious are the just and true, 

To give to Virtue what is Virtue's due — 

The praise of wisdom, comeliness, and worth, S95 

And call her charms to publick notice forth — 

Than Vice's mean and disingenuous race, 

To hide the shocking features of her face. 

Her form with dress and lotion they repair j 

Then kiss their idol, and pronounce her fair. 300 

The sacred implement I now employ 
Might prove a mischief, or at best a toy ; 
A trifle, if it move but to amuse ; 
But, if to wrong the judgment and abuse, 
Worse than a poniard in the basest hand, 305 

It stabs at once the morals of a land. 

Ye writers of what none with safety reads ; 
Footing it in the dance that Fancy leads ; 
Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend, 
Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end ; 310 

Whose corresponding misses fill the ream 
With sentimental frippery and dream, 
Caught in a delicate soft silken net 
By some lewd earl, or rakehell baronet ; 
Ye pimps, who under virtue's fair pretence, 315 

Steal to the closet of young innocence, 
And teach her, unexperienc'd yet and green, 
To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen ; 
Who, kindling a combustion of desire. 
With some cold moral think to quench the fire ; 330 
Though all your engineering proves in vain. 
The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again. 
O that a verse had pow'r, and could command, 
Far, far away these flesh-flies of the land j 
Who fasten without mercy on the fair, 325 

And suck, and leave a craving maggot there ! 
Howe'er disguis'd, th' inflammatory tale. 
And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil ; 
Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust 
And relish of their pleasure all to lust. 330 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 41 

But the inusft, eagle puuon'd, has in view 
A quarry more important still than you ; 
Down, down the Avind she swims, and sails away, 
Now stoops uj^on it, and nov/ grasps the prey. 

Petroniiis ! all the muses weep for thee ; 335 

But ev'ry tear shall scald thy memory ; 
The gr»ices too, while Virtue at tiieir shrine, 
Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine, 
Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
Abhorr'd the sacrifice, and curs'd the priest. 340 

Thou polish'd and high finish'd foe to truth, 
Graybeard corrupter of our list'ning youth. 
To purge and skim away the filth of vice, 
That so refin'd it might the more entice, 
Tlien pour it on the morals of thy son ; 345 

To taint his heart, was worthy of thine oion ! 
Now, while the poison all high life pervades, 
Write, if thou canst, one letter from the shades. 
One, and one only, charg'd with deep regret. 
That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ; 350 

One sad epistle thence may cure mankind 
Of the plague spread by bundles left behind. 
'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears, 
Our most important are our earliest years; 
The Mind, impressible and soft, with ease 355 

Imbibes and copies wliat she hears and sees, 
And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clow, 
That Education gives her, false or true, 
Plants rais'd with tenderness are seldom strong ; 
Man's coltish disposition asks tlie thong ; 360 

And, without discipline, the fav'rite child. 
Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 
But we, as if good qualities would grow 
Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow ; 
We give some Latin, and a smatch of Greek ; 365 

Teach him to fence, and figure twice a week : 
And having done, we think the best we can, 
Praise his proficiency, and dub him man. 
4^- 



42 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home ; 
And thence with all convenient speed to Rome, 370 
With rev'rend tutor clad in habit lay, 
To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day ; 
With memorandum book for ev'ry town, 
And ev'ry post, and where the chaise broke down. 
His stock, a few French phrases got by heart, 37^ 

With much to learn, but nothing to impart : 
The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 
Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. 
Surpris'd at all they meet, the gosling pair, 
With awkward gait, stretch'd neck, andi silly stare, 
Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 381 

And steeples tow'ring high much like our own ; 
But sliow peculiar light by many a grin 
At popish practices observ'd within. 

Ere long some bov/ing, smirking, smart abb6 385 
Remarks two loit'rers, that have lost their way ; 
And being always prim'd with jiolitesse 
For men of their appearance and address, 
With much compassion undertakes the task, 
To tell them more than they have wit to ask ; 390 

Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread, 
Such as, when legible, were never read, ! 

But, being canker'd now and half worn out, j 

Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt ; 
Some headless hero, or some Csesar shows — 395 

Defective only in his Roman nose ; 
Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 
Models of Herculanean pots and pans; 

And sells them medals, which, if neither rafe j 

Nor ancient, will be so, preserv'd with care. 400 

Strange the recital ! from whatever cause 
His great improvement and new light he draws, 
The squire, once bashful, is shamefac'd no more, 
But teems with pow'rs he never felt before : 
Whether incrcas'd momentum, and the force 405 

With which from clime to clime he sped liis course, 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 43 

As axles sometimes kindle as they go,) 

Chaf'd him, and brought dull nature to a glow ; 

Or whether clearer skies and softer air, 

That make Italian flow'rs so sweet and fair, 410 

Fresh'ning his lazy spirits as he ran, 

Unfolded genially and spread the man : 

Returning he proclaims by many a grace, 

By shrugs and strange contortions of his face. 

How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, 415 

Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home. 

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, 
And wisdom falls before exteriour grace : 
We shght the precious kernel of the stone. 

And toil to polish its rough coat alone. 420 j 

A just deportment, manners grac'd with ease, | 

Elegant phrase, and figure forni'd to please, 
Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
Whatever parents, guardians, schools, intend ; 
Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind, 425 

Though busy, trifling ; empty, though refin'd ; 
Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
With indolence and luxury, is trash : 
While learning, once the man's exclusive pride, 
Seems verging fast towards the female side. 430 

Learning itself, receiv'd into a mind 
By nature v\^eak, or viciously inclin'd, 
Serves but to lead philosophers astray. 
Where children would with ease discern the way. 
And of all arts sagacious dupes invent, 435 

To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent. 
The v/orst is — Scripture warp'd from its intent. 

The carriage bov/ls along, and all are pleas'd 
If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greas'd ; 
But if the rogue have gone a cup too far, 440 

Left out his linchpin or forgot his tar. 
It suffers interruption and delay, 
And meets with hind'rance in the smoothest way 
When some hypothesis absurd and vain 



44 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

Has fill'd with all its fumes a critick's brain, 445 

The text, that sorts not with his darling whim, 

Though plain to others, is obscure to him. 

The will made subject to a lawless force, 

All is irregular and out of course ; 

And judgment drunk, and brib'd to lose his way, 450 

Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noonday. 

A critick on the sacred book should be 
Candid and learnd, dispassionate and free ; 
Free from the wayward bias bigots feel, 
From fancy's influence, and intemperate zeal ; 455 

But above all, (or let the wretch refrain. 
Nor touch the page he cannot but profane,) 
Free from the domineering power of lust ; 
A. lewd interpreter is never just. 

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address, 460 
Thou god of our idolatry, the press ? 
By thee, religion, liberty, and laws. 
Exert their influence, and advance their cause ;. 
By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befell, 
Diff"us'd, make earth the vestibule of Hell ; 465 

Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise } 
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; 
Like Eden's dread probationary tree, 
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee. 

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, 470 

Till half mankind were like himself possess'd. 
Pliilosophers, who darken and put out 
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ; 
Cliurch quacks, with passions under no command. 
Who fill the world with doctrines contraband, 475 

Discov'rers of they know not what, confin'd 
Within no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ; 
To streams of popular opinion drawn, 
Deposit in those sJiallows all their spawn. 
The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around, 480 

Pois'ning the v/aters where their swarms abound 
Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 45 

Minnows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome food. 

The propagated myriads spread so fast, 

E'en Lewenhoeck himself would stand aghast, 485 

Employ 'd to calculate th' enormous sum, 

And own his crab-computing powers o'ercome. 

Is this hyperbole ? The world well known, 

Your sober tho^ights will hardly find it one. 

Fresh confidence the specxilatist takes 490 

From every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes : 
And therefore prints. Himself but half deceiv'd, 
Till others have the soothing tale believ'd. 
Hence comment after comment, spun as fine 
As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line. 495 

Hence the same word, that bids our lusts obey. 
Is misapplied to sanctify their sway. 
If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend, 
Hebrew or Syriack shall be forc'd to bend. 
If languages and copies all cry. No — 500 

Somebody prov'd it centuries ago. 
Like trout pursued, the critick in despair 
Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there. 
Women, whom custom has forbid to fly 
The scholar's pitch, (the scholar best knows why,) 505 
With aU the simple and unletter'd poor. 
Admire his learning, and almost adore. 
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong, 
With such fine words familiar to his tongue. 

Ye ladies ! (for indifF'rent in your cause, 510 

I should deserve to forfeit all applause,) 
Whatever shocks or gives the least offence 
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense 
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide,) 
Nor has, nor can have. Scripture on its side. 515 

None but an author knows an author's cares, 
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 
Committed once into the publick arms, 
The baby seems to smile with added charms. 
Lilce something precious ventur'd far from shore, 520 



46 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more. 

He views it wilh complacency supreme, 

Solicits kind attention to his dream ; 

And daily more enamour'd of the cheat 

Kneels, and asks Heav'n to bless tlie dear deceit. 525 

So one, whose story serves at least to show 

Men lov'd their own productions long ago, 

Woo'd an unfeeling statue for his wife, 

Nor rested till the gods had giv'n it life. 

If some mere driv'ller suck the sugar'd fib, 530 

One that still needs his leading string and bib, 

And praise his genius, he is soon repaid 

In praise applied to the same part — his head • 

For 'tis a rule, that holds for ever true, 

Grant me discernment, and I grant it you. 535 

Patient of contradiction as a child, 
Affable, humble, diffident, and mild ; 
Such was Sir Isaac, and such Boyle and Locke : 
Your blund'rer is as sturdy as a rock 
The creature is so sure to kick and bite, 540 

A muleteer's the man to set him right. 
First Appetite enlists him Truth's sworn foe, 
Then obstinate Self-will confirms liim so. 
Tell him he wanders ; tliat Ms errour leads 
To fatal ills ; that, tho' the path he treads 545 

Be flow'ry, and he see no cause of fear. 
Death and the pains of Hell attend him there j 
In vain : the slave of arrogance and pride, 
He has no hearing on the prudent side. 
His still-refuted quirks he still repeats ; 550 

New-rais'd objections with new quibbles meets j 
Till, sinking in the quicksand he defends, 
He dies disputing, and the contest ends — 
But not the mischiefs ; they, still left behind. 
Like thistle seeds, are sown by every wind. 556 

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
And with a clear and shining lamp supplied, 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 47 

First put it out, then take it for a guide. 

Halting on crutches of unequal size, 560 

One leg by truth supported, one by lies ; 

They sidle to the goal with awkward pace, 

Secure of nothing — but to lose the race. 

Faults in the life breed errours in the brain, 
And these reciprocally those again. 565 

The mind and conduct mutually imprint 
And stamp theii imago in eacli other's mint ; 
Each sire, and dam, of an infernal race. 
Begetting and conceiving all that's base. 

None sends his arrow to the mark in view, 570 

Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. 
For tho', ere yet the shaft is on the wing, 
Or when it first forsakes th' elastick string. 
It err but little from th' intended line, 
It falls at last far wide of Ins design ; 575 

So he, who seeks a mansion in the sky, 
Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye . 
That prize belongs to none but the sincere. 
The least obliquity is fatal here. 

With caution taste the sweet Circean cup : 580 

He that sips often at last drinks it up. 
Habits are soon assum'd ; but when we strive 
To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive. 
Call'd to the temple of impure delight. 
He that abstains, and he alone, does right. 585 

If a wish wander that way, call it home ; 
He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam. 
But, if you pass the threshold, you are caught j 
Die then, if pow'r Almighty save you not. 
There hard'iiing by degrees, till double steel'd, 590 

Take leave of Nature's God, and God reveal'd; 
Then laugh at all you trembled at before ; 
And, joining the free thinkers' brutal roar, 
Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense — 
That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. 595 



48 THE PROGRESS OF ERROUR. 

If clemency revolted by abuse 

Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse. 

Some dream that they can silence when they will, 
The storm of passion, and say, " Peace, he still ;" 
But, " Thus far and no farther," when address'd 600 
To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, 
Implies authority that never can, 
That never ought to be the lot of man. 

But, muse, forbear ; long flights forebode a fall ; 
Strike on the deep-ton'd chord the sum of all. 605 

Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies ! 
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies : 
And he that zcill be cheated to the last. 
Delusions strong as Hell shall bind liim fast. 
But if the wand'rer his mistake discern, 610 

Judge his own ways and sigh for a return, 
Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss 
For ever and for ever ? No — the cross ! 
There, and there only, (though the deist rave, 
And atheist, if earth bear so base a slave ;) 615 

There, and there only, is the power to save. 
There no delusive hope invites despair ; 
No mock'ry meets you, no deception there. 
The spells and charms, that blinded you before, 
All vanish there, and fascinate no more. ^0 

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice — 
The cross once seen is death to ev'ry vice ; 
Else he that hung there, sufFer'd all his pain, 
Bled, groan'd, and agoniz'd, and died in vain. 



TRUTH. 



Pensantur trutina — Hor. Lib. II. Epist. 1. 

MAN, on the dubious waves of errour toss'd, 
His ship half founder 'd, and his compass lost, 
Sees far as human opticks may command, 
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land ! 
Spreads all his canvass, ev'ry sinew plies; 5 

Pants for't, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! 
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes. 
His well-built systems, philosophick dreams 
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell ! 
He reads his sentence at the flames of Hell. 10 

Hard lot of man — to toil for the revard 
Of virtue, and yet lose it ! Wherefore hard ? — 
He that would win the race must guide his horse 
Obedient to the customs of the course ; 
Else, tbo' uneqnali'd to the goal he flies, 15 

A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the w rong, 
Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; 
Charge not with light sufiicient, and left free, 
Your wilful suicide on God's decree. 20 

Oh how unlike the complex works of man, 
Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumbered plan ! 
No meretricious graces to beguile. 
No clust'ring ornaments to clog the pile ; 
From ostentation as from weakness free, 25 

It stands Uke the cerulean arch Ave see, 
Majestick in its own simplicity. 

Vol. I. 5 



50 TRUTH. 

Inscrib'd above the portal, from afar 

Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 

Legible only by the liglit t)icy give, 30 

Stand the soul-quick 'ning words — believe and live. 

Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most, 

Despise the plain direction, and are lost. 

Heav'n on such terms ! (they cry with proud disdain,) 

Incredible, impossible, and vain ! — 35 

Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey : 

And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way. 

These are the sober, in whose cooler brains 

Some thought of immortality remains ; 

The rest too busy or too gay to wait 40 

On the sad theme, their everlasting state. 

Sport for a day, and perish in a niglit. 

The foam upon the waters not so light. 

Who judg'd the pharisee ? What odious cause 
Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws .-* 45 

Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend. 
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end .'' 
Was blasphemy his sin ? Or did he stray 
From the strict duties of the sacred day ? 
Sit long and late at the carousing board ? 50 

(Such were the sins with which he charg'd his Lord.) 
No — the man's morals were exact, what then .-' 
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ; 
His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 55 

He wore them as fine trappings for a show, 
A praying, synagogue -frequenting beau. 
The self- applauding bird, the peacock, see — 
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold 60 

His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold ; 
He treads as if some solemn musick near, 
His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear ; 
And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl, give place, 
I am all splendour, dignit}^, and grace ! 65 



TRUTH. 51 

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, 
Though he too has a glory in his plumes, 
He, christian-like, retreats with modest mion 
To the close copse, or far sequester'd green, 
And shines without desiring to be seen. 70 

The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, 
Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and disdain ; 
Not more affronted by o.vow'd neglect, 
Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. 
What is all righteousness that men devise .'' 75 

What — ^but a sordid bargain for the skies .' 
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own. 
As stoop from Heav'n to sell the proud a throne- 

His dwelling a recess in some rude rock, 
Book, beads, and maple dish, his meagre stock . 80 

In shirt of hair and weeds of canvass dress'd. 
Girt with a bell rope that the pope has bless'd ; 
Adust with stripes told out for ev'ry crime, 
And sore tormented long before his time ; 
His pray'r preferr'd to saints that cannot aid ; 85 

His praise postpon'd, and never to be paid ; 
See the sage hermit, by mankind admir'd. 
With all that bigotry adopts inspir'd, 
Wearing out life in his religious whim. 
Till liis religious whimsy wears out him. 90 

His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd. 
You think him humble — God accounts him proud j 
High in demand, though lowly in pretence. 
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood, 95 

Have purchas'd Heav'n, and prov'd my title good. 
Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply 
To your weak sight her telescopick eye. 
The bramin kindles on his own bare head 
The sacred fire, self- torturing his trade ; 100 

His voluntary pains, severe and long, 
Would give a barb'rous air to British song ; 
No grand inquisitor could worse invent, 



52 TRUTH 

Than he contrives to suffer, well content. 

Which is the saintlier worthy of the two ? 105 

Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. 
Your sentence and mine differ. What s a name >' 
I say the bramin has the fairer claim. 
If suff 'rings, Scripture no where recommends, 
Dev'^'d by self to answer selfish ends, 110 

Give saintship, then all Europe must agree 
Ten starving hermits suffer less than he. 

The truth, is, (if the truth may suit your ear 
And prejudice have left a passage clear,) 
Pride lias attain'd its most luxuriant growth, 115 

And poison'd ev'ry virtue in them both. 
Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean ; 
Humility may clothe an English dean ; 
That grace was Cowper's — his, confess'd by all — 
Though plac'd in golden Durham's second stall. 120 
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, 
His palace, and his lacqueys, and ** My lord," 
More nourish pride, that condescending vice, 
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
It thrives in mis'ry, and abundant grows ; 125 

In mis'ry fools upon tliemselves impose. 

But why before us protestants produce 
An Indian mystick, or a French rechise ? 
Their sin is plain ; but wliat have we to fear, 
Reform'd and well instructed ? You shall hear. 130 

Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show 
She might be young some forty years ago, 
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips, 
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, 
Iler eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray 135 
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play. 
With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies 
The rude inclemency of wintry sides, 
And sails with lappet head and mincing airs, 
Duly at clink of bell to morning pray'rs. 140 

To thrifl and parsimony much inclin'd, 



TRUTH. 53 

She yet allows herself that boy behind ; 

The shiv'ring tivchin, bending as he goes, 

With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose ; 

His predecessor's coat advanc'd to wear, 115 

Which future pages yet are doom'd to share, 

Carries her Bible tuck"d beneath his arm, 

And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. 

She half an angel in her own account, 
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. 150 
Though not a grace appears on strictest search, 
But that she fasts, and, item, goes to church. 
Conscious of age she recollects her youth, 
And tells, not always, with an eye to truth, 
Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came, 
Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; 15G 
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay. 
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day. 
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, 
Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp ; 160 

In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes. 
Or real or fictitious of the times ; 
Laughs at the reputations she has torn. 
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. 

Sucli are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, 1G5 

Of malice fed while flesh is mortified : 
Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs. 
Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs , 
Your portion is with them. — Nay, never frown, 
But if you please, some fathoms lower down. 170 

Artist, attend — your brushes and your paint — 
Produce them — take a chair — now draw a saint. 
Oh sorrowful and sad ! the streaming tears 
Channel her cheeks — a Niobe appears ! 
Is this a saint f Tln-ow tints and all away — 175 

True Piety is clieerfal as the day, 
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan 
I'or others' woes, but smiles upon her own. 

What purpose has the King of saints in view ? 
5 * 



64 TRUTH. 

Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew ? 180 

To call up plenty from the teeming earth, 

Or curse the desert v/ith a tenfold dearth ? 

Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd 

From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd ? 

To loose the links that galfd mankind before, 185 

Or bind them faster on, and add still more ? 

The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, 

Or, if a chain, the golden one of love ; 

No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, 

What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. 190 

Shall he for such deliv'rance freely wrought. 

Recompense ill ? He trembles at the thought. 

His master's interest and his own combin'd. 

Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind ; 

Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, 195 

His freedom is the freedom of a prince. 

Man's obligations infinite, of course 
His life should prove that he perceives their force ; 
His utmost he can render is but small — 
The principle and motive all in all. 200 

You have two servants — Tom, an arch, sly rogue, 
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue. 
Genteel in figure, easy in address, 
Moves without noise, and swift as an express, 
Reports a message with a pleasing grace, 205 

Expert in all the duties of his place ; 
Say, on what hinge does his obedience move .•* 
Has he a world of gratitude and love ? 
No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharper's play ; 
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay; 
Reduce liis wages, or get rid of her, 211 

Tom quits you, with — Your most obedient, Sir. 

The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand. 
Watches your eye, anticipates command ; 
Sighs, if perhaps your appetite should fail ; 215 

And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ; 
Consults all day your int'rest and your ease. 



TRUTH. 55 

Riclily rewarded it he can but please ; 

And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 

To save your Viie, would nobly risk his own. 220 

Now which stands highest in your serious thought ? 
Charles, without doubt, say you — and so he ought ; 
One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, 
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. 
Thus Heav'n approves as honest and sincere, 225 

The work of gen'rous love, and filial fear ; 
But with averted eyes tli' omniscient Judge 
Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. 
Where dwell these matchless saints ? — old Curio cries : 
Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, 230 

The favoured few — th' enthusiasts you despise. 
And pleas'd at heart, because on holy ground 
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, 
Reproach a people with a shigle fa,ll. 
And cast his filthy garment at them all. 235 

Attend ! — an apt similitude sliall show 
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. 
See where it smokes along the sounding plain. 

Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain. 

Peal upon peal redoubling all around, 240 

Shakes it again and faster to the ground : 

Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play. 

Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 

Ere yet it came the trav'ller urg'd his steed, 

And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed ; 245 

Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, 

He drops the rein, and loaves him to his pace. 

Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude. 

Long hid by interposing hill or wood. 

Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, 250 

By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, 

Ofler him warintli, security, and rest ; 

Think with v/hat pleasure, safe, and at his ease, 

He hears the tempest how^ling in tlie trees ; I 

What glov/iiig thanks his lips and lieart employ 255 \ 



66 TRUTH. 

WJiile danger past is turn'd to present joy. 

So fares it with the sinner, when he feels 

A growing dread of vengeance at his heels ; 

His conscience, like a glassy lake before, 

Lash'd into foaming v/aves begins to roar ; 260 

The law grown clamorous, though silent long, 

Arraigns him, — charges him with ev'ry wrong — 

Asserts the rights of his offended Lord, 

And death or restitution is the word ; 

The last impossible — he fears the first, 265 

And, having well descrv'd, expects the worst. 

Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home ; 

Oh for a sjielter from tlie wrath to come ! 

Crusli me, ye rocks ;. ye falling mountains, hide 

Or bur}' me in ocean's angry tide — 270 

The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes 

I dare not — And you need not, God replies : 

The remedy j^ou want I freely give ; 

Txie book shall teach you — read, believe, and live. 

'Tis done — the raging storm is heard no more, 275 

Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore ; 

And justice, guardian of the dread command. 

Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand. 

A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise ; 

Hence the complexion of his future days, 280 

Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd, 

And the world's hatred, as its sure effect. 

Some lead a life unblamable and just. 
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : 
They never sin — or if, (as all offend,) 2S5 

Some trivial slips tlieir daily walk attend, 
The poor are near at hand, the chaige is small, 
A slight gratuity atones for all. 
For though the pope has lost his int'rest here, 
And pardons are not sold as once they were, 290 

No papist more desirous to compound. 
Than some grave sinners upon English ground, 
That plea refuted, other qiiirks they seek — 



TRUTH. 57 

Mercy is infinite, and man is weak ; 

The future shall obliterate the past, 295 

And Heav'n no doubt shall bo their home at last. 

Come then — a still small whisper in your ear- 
He has no hope who never had a fear ; 
And he that never doubted of his state, 
He may perpaps — perhaps he may — too late. 300 

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 
Learning is one, and wit, however rare. 
The Frenchman, first in literary fame, 
(Mention him if you please. Voltaire ? — The same,) 
With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, 305 

Liv'd long, wrote mucli, laugh'd heartily, and died ; 
The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew 
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 
An infidel in health, but what when sick .'' 
Oh — then a text would touch him at the quick : 310 
View him at Paris in his last career. 
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere, 
Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side. 
He begs their flattery with his latest breath, 315 

And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd to death. 

Ton cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
Content, though mean, and cheerful if not gay 
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day, 320 

Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; 
She, for her humble spliere by nat ire fit. 
Has little understanding, and no wit. 
Receives no praise ; but though hor lot be such, 325 
(Toilsome and indigent,) she renders much : 
Just loiows, and knows no more, her Bible true — 
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 330 

O happy peasant ! Oh unhappy bard ! 



58 TRUTH. 

His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 

He prais'd perhaps for age? yet to come, 

She never heard of half a mile from homo : 

He, lost in errours, his vain heart preiers, 335 

She, safe in the sirnnlicity of hers. 

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 
In science, win one inch of heavenly ground. 
And is it not a mortifying thouglit 

The poor should gain it, and the rich shou.ld not. 340 
No, — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget 
One pleasure lost, lose Heav'n without regret ; 
Regret would rouse them, and give birth to pray'r, 
Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there. 

Not that the Former of us all, in this, 345 

Or ought he does, is govern'd by caprice ; 
The supposition is replete with sin. 
And bears the brand of blasphemy burn'd in. 
Not so — the silver trumpet's hcav'nly call 
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : 350 

Kings are invited, and would kings obey. 
No slaves on earth more welcome were than they j 
But royalty, nobility, and state. 
Are such a dead preponderating weight, 
That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it seem,) 355 
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter, — why .'' 
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — 
And he says much that many may dispute 
And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 360 

O bless'd effect of penury and want. 
The seed sown there, how vig'rous is the plant ! 
No soil like poverty for growth divine. 
As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 
Earth gives too little, giving only bread, 365 

To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head : 
To them the sounding jargon of the schools 
Seems what it is — a cap and bells for fools : 
The light they walk by, kindled from above, 



TRUTH. 59 

Shows them the shortest way to hfe and love ; 370 

Tliey, strangers to the controversial field, 

Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, 

And never check'd by what impedes the wise, 

Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize. 

Envy, yo great, the dull unletter'd small : 375 

Ye have much cause for envy — but not all. 

We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways. 

And one who v/ears a coronet, and prays ; 

Like gleanings of an olive tree they show 

Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 380 

How readily upon the Gospel plan, 
That question has its answer — What is man ? 
Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch ; 
An instrument, whose chords, upon the stretch. 
And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, 385 
Yield only discord in his Maker's ear : 
Once the bless'd residence of truth divine, 
Glorious as Solyma's interiour shrine, 
Where, in his own oracular abode, 

Dwelt visibly the light-creating God : 390 

But made long since like Babylon of old, 
A den of mischiefs never to be told ; 
And she, once mistress of the realms around. 
Now scatter'd wide, and no where to be found, 
As soon shall rise and reascend the throne, 395 

By native pow'r and energy her own. 
As Nature at her own peculiar cost, 
Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
Go — bid the winter cease to chill the year. 
Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere, iOO 

Then boast, (but wait for that unhop'd-for hour,) 
Tlie self-restoring arm of human pow'r. 
But what is man in his own proud esteem ? 
Hear him — himself the poet and the theme : 
A monarch cloth'd with majesty and awe, 405 

His mind, liis kingdom, and his will, his law ; 
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, 



60 TRUTH. 

Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies, 

Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod, 

And thunderbolts excepted, quite a god ! 410 

So sings he, cliarm'd with liis own mind and form, 

The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! 

Himself so much the source of his delight. 

His Maker has no beauty in his sight. 

See where he sits, contempiativo and fix'd, 415 

Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd ; 

His passions tam'd, and all at his contro], 

How perfect the composure of his soul t 

Complacency has breathM a gentle gale 

O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail : 420 

His books well triram'd and in the gayest style 

Like regimented coxcombs rank and file, 

Adorn his intellects as w^ell as shelves. 

And teach him notions splendid as themselves : 

The Bible only stands neglected there, 425 

Though that of all most worthy of his care ; 

And like an infant, troublesome awake, 

Is left to bleep for peace and quiet sake. 

What shall the man deserve of human kind, 
Whose happy skill and industry combin'd 430 

Shall prove, (what argument could never yet,) 
The Bible an imposture and a cheat .'' 
The praises of the libertine profess'd. 
The worst of men, and curses of the best. 
Where should the lidng, weeping o'er his woes; 435 
The dying, trembling at the awful close ; 
Where the betray "d, forsaiien, and oppress'd, 
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest, 
Where snould they find, (those comforts at an end 
The Scripture yields.) or hope to find a friend ? 440 
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, 
And seeking exile from the sigut of men. 
Bury herself in solitude profound, 
Grov/ frantick with her pangs, and bite the ground. 
Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life, 445 



TRUTH. 61 

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife. 

The jury meet, the coroner is short, 

And lunacy the verdict of the court ; 

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known, 

Such lunacy is ignorance alone ; 450 

They knew not, what some bishops may not know, 

That Scripture is the only cure of wo ; 

That field of promise, how it flings abroad 

Its odour o'er the Christian's thorny road I 

The soul, reposing on assur'd relief, 455 

Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, 

Forgets her labour as she toils along. 

Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. 

But the same word, that, like the pohsh'd share, 
Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care, 460 

Kills, too, the flow'ry weeds, where'er they grow, 
That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. 
Oh that unwelcome voice of heavenly love, 
Sad messenger of mercy from above ! 
How does it grate upon his thankless ear, 465 

Crippling his pleasures v/itli the cramp of fear ! 
His will and judgment at continual strife, 
That civil war imbitters all his life : 
In vain he points his pow'rs against the skies. 
In vain he closes or averts his eyes, 470 

Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware ; 
And shakes the sceptick in the scorner's chair. 

Though various foes against the truth combine, 
Pride above all opposes her design •, 
Pride, of a growth superiour to the resi, 475 

The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest. 
Swells at the thought, and, kindling mto rage, 
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 

And is the soul indeed so lost .^ — she cries, 
Fall'n from her glory, and too weak to rise ? 480 

Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone. 
Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own .' 
Grant her indebted to what zealots call 

Vol. I. 6 



62 TRUTH. 

Grace undeserv'd, yet surely not for all — 

Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, 485 

Some love of virtue, and some pow'r to praise ; 

Can lift herself above corporeal things, 

And, soaring on her own unborrow'd wings, 

Possess herself of all that's good or true. 

Assert the skies, and vindicate her due. 490 

Past indiscretion is a venial crime. 

And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time. 

Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude, 

Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude, 

Maturer years shall happier stores produce, 495 

And meliorate the well-concocted juice. 

Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal, 

To Justice she may make her bold appeal, 

And leave to Mercy, v/ith a tranquil mind, 

The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. 500 

Hear, then, how Mercy, slighted and defied, 

Retorts the affront against the crown of Pride. 

Perish the virtue as it ought, abhorr'd. 
And the fool with it who insults his Lord. 
The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought, 505 
Is not for you — the righteous need it not 
Seest thou yon harlot wooing all she meets. 
The worn-out nuisance of the publick streets, 
Herself from morn to night, from night to morn, 
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn ! 510 
The gracious show'r, unlimited and free. 
Shall fall on her, when Heavn denies it thee. 
Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift. 
That man is dead in sin, and life a gift. 

Is virtue, then, unless of Christian growth, 515 

Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both .-' 
Ten thousand sages lost in endless wo. 
For ignorance of what they could not know .'' 
That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue- 
Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong. 520 
Truly not I — the nartia! light men have, 



TRUTH. 63 

My creed persuades me, well-employ'd, may save ', 

While he that scorns the noonday beam, perverse, 

Shall find the blessing unimprov'd, a curse. 

Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 525 

Left sensuality and dross behind, 

Possess for me their undisputed lot, 

And take, unenvied, the reward they sought. 

But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea, 

Not bhnd by choice, but destin'd not to see. 630 

Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame 

Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, 

Deriv'd from the same source of light and grace, 

That guides the Christian in his swifter race ; 

Their judge was conscience, and her rule their law ; 

That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe, 536 

Led them however falt'ring, faint, and slow, 

From what they knew, to what they wish'd to know. 

But let not him, that shares a brighter day, 

Traduce the splendour of a noontide ray, 540 

Prefer the twilight of a darker time , 

And deem his base stupidity no crime ; 

The wretch, who slights the bounties of the skies. 

And sinks, while favour'd with the means to rise. 

Shall find them rated at their full amount, 545 

The good he scorn'd all carried to account. 

Marshalhng all his terrours as he came. 
Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, 
From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law, 
Life for obedience, death for ev'ry flaw. 550 

When the great sov'ieign would his will express. 
He gives a perfect rule ; what can he less ? 
And guards it with a sanction as severe 
As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear ; 
Else his OAvn glorious rights he would disclaim, 555 
And man might safely trifle with his name. 
He bids him glow^ with unremitting love 
To all on earth, and to himself above ; 
Condemns th' injurious deed, the sland'rous tongue, 



64 TRUTH. 

The thought that meditates a brother's wrong : 560 
Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, 
His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart. 

Hark ! universal nature shook and groan'd, 
'Twas the last trumpet — see the Judge enthron'd ! 
Rouse all your courage at your utmost need, 565 

Now summon ev'ry virtue — stand and plead. 
What ! silent ? is your boasting heard no more .'' 
That self-renouncing wisdom learn'd before, 
Had shed immortal glories on your brow, 
That all your virtues cannot purchase now. 670 

All joy to the believer ! He can speak — 
Trembling, yet happy ; confident, yet meek. 

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot, 
And cut up all my follies by the root, 
I never trusted in an arm but thine, 575 

Nor hop'd, but in thy righteousness divine : 
My pray'rs and alms, imperfect and defil'd, 
Were but the feeble efforts of a child ; 
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part 
That they proceeded from a grateful heart ; 580 

Cleans'd in thine own all-purifying blood, 
Forgive their evil, and accept their good ; 
I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 
Is what it was, dependence upon thee ; 
While struggling in the vale of tears below, 585 

That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me no-VY- 

Angelick gratulations rend the skies, 
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise, 
Humility is crown'd, and Faith receives' the prize. 



EXPOSTULATION. 



Tanlane, tarn patiens, nullo ccrtamine tolli 
Dona sines ? Virg. 

WHY weeps the muse for England ? What appears 
In England's case, to move the muse to tears ? 
From side to side of her delightful isle 
Is she not cloth'd with a perpetual smile ? 
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 5 

A new-found luxury not seen in her ? 
Where under Heav'n is pleasure more pursued, 
Or where does cold reflection less intrude ? 
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn, 
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn; 10 

Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies 
The fervour and the force of Indian skies ; 
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits 
To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice 15 

Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice, 
Forbid in vain to push his daring way 
To darker climes, or clunes of brighter day ; 
Whom the winds wall where'er the billows roll, 
From the world's girdle to the frozen pole ; 20 

The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets, 
Her vaults below, where ev'ry vintage meets ; 
Her theatres, her rcvols, and her sports ; 
The scenes to v/hich not youth alone resorts. 



C6 EXPOSTULATION. 

But age, in spite of weakness and of pain, 25 

Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; 
All speak her happy : let the muse look round 
From east to west, no sorrow can be found ; 
Or only what, in cottages confin'd, 
Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. 30 

Then wherefore weep for England .? What appears 
In England's case, to move the muse to tears 1 

The prophet wept for Israel : wish'd his eyes 
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies : 
For Israel dwelt in rob])ery and wrong ; 35 

There were the scorner's and the sland'rer's tongue ; 
Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, 
As interest bias'd knaves, or fashion fools ; 
Adult'ry, neighing at his neighbour's door ; 
Oppression, lab'ring hard to grind the poor : 40 

Tlie partial balance, and deceitful weight ; 
The treach'rous smile, a mask for secret hate ; 
Hypocrisy, formality in pray'r, 
And the dull service of the lip were there. 
Her women, insolent and self-caress'd, 45 

By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd. 
Forgot the blush, that virgin fears impart 
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art : 
Were just such trifles, without worth or use, 
As silly pride and idleness produce : 50 

Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounced around, 
With feet too delicate to touch the ground. 
They stretch'd the neck, and rolFd the wanton eVj 
And sigJi'd for every fool thatflutter'd by. 

He saw his people slaves to ev'ry lust, 55 

Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjus*. : 
He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
Groan iieavily along the distant road ; 
Saw Babj-lon set wide her two-leav'd brass 
To let the military deluge pass ; CO 

Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd, 
Her princes captive, and her treasure spoil'd ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 67 

Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, 

Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 

But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in vain, 65 

Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain, 

And sounds prophetick are too rough to suit 

Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute : 

They scorn'd his inspiration and his theme, 

Pronounc'd him frantick, and his fears a dream ; 70 

With self indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours, 

Till the foe found them, and down fell their tow'rs 

T ong time Assyria bound them in her chain, 
'Till penitence had purg'd the publick stain, 
And Cyrus, with relenting pity mov'd, 75 

Return'd them happy to the land they lov'd ; 
There, proof against prosperity, a while 
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, 
And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
The virtues tliey had learn'd in scenes of wo. 80 

But man is frail, and can but ill sustain 
A long immunity from grief and pain ; 
And after all the joys that Plenty leads, 
With tiptoe step,Vice silently succeeds. 

When he that rul'd them with a shepherd's rod 85 
In form a man, in dignity a God, 
Came, not expected in that humble guise, 
To sift and searcli them with unerring eyes ; 
He found conceal'd beneath a fair outside, 
Tlic filth of rottenness, and worm of pride ; 90 

Their piety a system of deceit, 
Scripture employ 'd to sanctify the cheat ; 
The pharisee the dupe of his own art, 
Self idoliz'd, and yet a knave at heart. 

When nations are to perish in their sins, 95 

'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
The priest, whose office is with zeal sincere 
To watch the fountain and preserve it clear, 
Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink, 
While others poison Avhat the flock must drink ; 100 



63 EXPOSTULATION. 

Or, waking at the call of lust alone, 

Infuses lies and errours of Iiis own ; 

His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; 

And, taijited by the very means of cure, 

Catch from each other a contagious spot, 105 

The foul forerunner of a genral rot. 

Then Truth is liush'd, that Heresy may preach; 

And all is trash, that Reason cannot reach : 

Then God's own image on»the soul impress'd 

Becomes a mock'ry. and a standing jest ; 110 

And Faith, the root whence only can arise 

The graces of a life that vans the skies. 

Loses at once all value and esteem, 

Pronounc'd by graybeards a pernicious dream : 

Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 11«) 

Prepar'd to fight for shadows of no worth ; 

While truths, on which eternal things depend, 

Find not, or hardly find, a single friend j 

As soldiers watch the signal of command, 

They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 12W 

Happy to fill R-eligion's vacant place 

With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace. 

Such, when the Teacher of his church was there, 
People and priest, the sons of Israel were ; 
Stiff in the letter, lax in the design 133 

And import, of their oracles divine ; 
Their learning legendary, false, absurd, 
And yet exalted above God's own word ; 
They drew a curse from an intended good, 
Puflf'd up with gifts they never understood. 130 

He judg'd them with as terrible a frown, 
As if not love, but wrath, had brought him down 
Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs. 
Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs ; 
Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — 135 

Rhet'rick is artifice, the work of man ; 
And tricks and turns, that fancy may devise. 
Are far too mean for him that rules the skies. 



EXPOSTULATION. 69 

Th' astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore 
The mask from faces never seen before : 140 

He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, 
Show'd that they foUow'd all they seem'd to shun : 
Their pray'rs made publick, their excesses kept 
As private as the chambers where they slept " 
The temple and its holy rites profan'd 145 

By mumm'ries he that dwelt ifi it disdain'd ; 
Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice. 
And free from ev'ry taint but that of vice. 150 

Judgment, ho we ver tardy, mends her pace 
When Obstinacy once has conquer'd Grace. 
They saw distemper heal'd, and life restor'd, 
In answer to the fiat of his word ; 

Confess'd the wonder, and with daring tongue 155 

Blasphem'd th' authority from which it sprung. 
They knew by sure prognosticks seen on high, 
The future tone and temper of the sky ; 
But, grave dissemblers, could not understand. 
That Sin let loose speaks Punishment at hand. ICO 

Ask now of history's authentick page, 
And call up evidence from every age ; 
Display with busy and laborious hand 
The blessings of the most indebted land ; 
What nation will you find, whose annals prove 165 
So rich an int'rest in almighty love ? 
Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient day, 
A people planted, water'd, bless'd as they .'' 
Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim 
The favours pour'd upon the Jewish name ; 170 

Their freedom purchased for them at the cost 
Of all their hard oppressors valued most ; 
Their title to a country not their own. 
Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; 174 

For them, the states they left made waste and void ; 
For them, the states to which they went destroy'd ; 



70 EXPOSTULATION. 

A cloud to measure out their march by day, 

By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way : 

That moving signal smnmoning, when best 

Their host to move, and when it stay'd, to rest. 180 

For them the rocks dissolv'd into a flood, 

The dews condens'd into angeUck food, 

Their very garments sacred — old, yet new, 

And Time forbid to touch them as he flew ; 

Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand, 185 

While they pass'd through to their appointed land ; 

Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love, 

And grac'd with clear credentials from above . 

Themselves secur'd beneath the Almighty wing ; 

Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king ; 190 

Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at last 

Lords of the conquer'd soil, there rooted fast, 

In peace possessing what they won by war, 

Their name far published, and rever'd as far : 

Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd 195 

With, all that man e'er wish'd, or Heav'n bestow'd ? 

They, and they only, amongst all mankind 
Receiv'd the transcript of the eternal mind ; 
Were trusted with his own engraven laws. 
And constituted guardians of his cause ; 200 

Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call, 
And theirs, by birth, the Saviour of us all. 
In vain the nations that had seen them rise 
With fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes. 
Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were 205 
By pow'r divine, and skill that could not err. 
Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, 
And kept the fiiith immaculate and pure, 
Then the proud eagles of all-conquering Rome 
Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; 210 

And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd, 
Had bid defiance to the warring world. 

* Vide Joshua, v. 14. 



EXPOSTULATION. 71 

But grace abus'd brings forth the foulest deeds, 
As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
Cur'd of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, 215 

They set up self, that idol god, within ; 
View'd a deliverer with disdain and hate, 
Who left them still a tributary state ; 
Seiz'd fast his hand, held out to sot them free 
From a worse yolse, and nail'd it to the tree : 220 

There was the consummation and the crown, 
The flow'r of Israel's infamy full blown ; 
Thence date their sad declension and their fall. 
Their woes not yet rcpeal'd, thence date them all. 

Thus fell the best instructed in her day, 225 

And the most favour'd land, look where we may. 
Philosophy, indeed, on Grecian eyes 
Had pour'd the da}", and clear'd the Roman skies ; 
In other climes perhaps creative Art, 
With pow'r surpassing theirs, perform'd her part ; 230 
Might give more life to marble, or might fill 
The glowing tablets with a juster skill ; 
Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes 
With all the embroid'ry of poetick dreams ; 
'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan, 235 

That Truth and Mercy had reveal'd to man ; 
And, while the world beside, that plan unknown, 
Deified useless wood or senseless stone. 
They breath'd in faith their well-directed pray'rs. 
And the true God, the God of truth, was theirs. 240 

Their glory faded, and their race dispers'd, 
The last of nations now, though once the first ; 
They warn and teach the proudest, would they learn. 
Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn : 
If we escap'd not, if Heav'n spar'd not us, 246 

Peel'd, scatter'd, and exterminated thus ! 
If Vice receiv'd her retribution due, 
When we were visited, what hope for you ? 
When God arises witii an awful frown 
To punish lust? or pluck presumption down ; 250 



72 EXPOSTULATION. 

When gifts perverted, or not duly priz'd, 

Pleasure o'ervalued, and his grace despis'd, 

Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand ; 

To pour down wrath upon a thankless land ; 

He will be found impartially severe, 255 

Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clean 

Oh Israel, of all nations most undone ! 
Thy diadem displac'd, thy sceptre gone : 
Thy temple, once thy glory, fall'n and raz'd, 
And thou a worshipper e'en where thou may'st ; 260 
The services, once only without spot, 
Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot ; 
Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, 
No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, 
And tbo-- thyself o'er ev'ry country sown, 265 

With none en earth that thou canst call thine own ; 
Cry aloud, thou, that sittest in the dust, 
Cry to the proud, the cruel, and unjust ; 
Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their feais ; 
Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears, 270 

But raise the shrillest cr}^ in British ears. 

What ails thee, restless as the waves that roar, 
And fling their ibain against thy chalky shore ; 
Mistress, at least while Providence shall please 
And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — 275 

Why, having kept good faith, and often shown 
Friendship and truth to others, iind'st thou none ? 
Thou that hast set the persecuted free, 
None interposes now to succour thee. 
Countries indebted to thy pow'r, that shine 280 

With light deriv'd from thee, would smother thine ; 
Thy very children watch for thy disgrace — 
A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
Thy rulers load thy credit year by year, 
With sums Peruvian mines could never clear ; 285 

As if, like arches built with skilfvil hand, 
The more 'twere press'd the firmer it would stand. 



EXPOSTULATION. 73 

The cry in all thy ships is still the same, 
Speed us away to battle and to fame. 
Thy mariners explore the wild expanse, 290 

Impatient to descry the flags of France : 
But though they fight as thine have ever fought, 
Return asham'd without the wreaths they sought. 
Thy senate is a scene of civil jar. 

Chaos of contrarieties at war j 295 

Where sharp and solid, phlegmatick and light, 
Discordant atoms meet, ferment, and fight ; 
Where Obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, 
To disconcert what Policy has plann'd ; 
Where Policy is busied all night long 300 

In setting right what Faction has set wrong ; 
Where flails of oratory thresh the floor, 
That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing more. 
Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain, 
Tax'd till the brow of Labour sweats in vain ; 305 

War lays a burden on the reeling state, 
And peace does nothing to relieve the weight ; 
Successive loads succeeding broils impose, 
And sighing millions prophesy the close. 

Is adverse Providence, when ponder'd well, 310 

So dimly writ, or difficult to spell, 
Thou canst not read with readiness and ease 
Providence adverse in events like these ,'' 
Know, then, that heavenly wisdom on this ball 
Creates, gives birth to, guides, consummates all j 315 
That while laborious and quick-thoughted man 
SnuflTs up the praise of what he seems to plan, 
He first conceives, then perfects his design. 
As a mere instrument in hands divine : 
Blind to the working of that secret pow'r, 320 

That balances the wings of ev'ry hour, 
The busy trifler dreams himself alone. 
Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 
States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane, 
E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; 225 

Vol. L 7 



74 EXPOSTULATION. 

While honour, virtue, piety, bear sway, ! 

They flourish ; and as these decUno, decay : j 

In just resentment of his injnr'd laws, ! 

He pours contempt on them, and on their cause : j 

Strikes the rough thread of errour right athwart 330 | 

The web of ev'ry scheme they have at heart ; j 

Bids rottenness invade and bring to dust 
The pillars of support, in which they trust, 
And do his errand of disgrace and shame 
On the chief strength and glory of the frame. 335 

None ever yet impeded what he wrought, j 

None bars him out from his most secret thought ; j 

Darkness itself before his eye is light, j 

And Hell's close mischief naked in his sight. | 

Stand now and judge thyself— Hast thou incurr'd i 

His anger, who can waste thee with a word > 341 j 

Who poises and proportions sea and land, i 

Weighing them in the hollow of his hand : j 

And in whose awful sight all nations seem ; 

As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream ? 345 ; 

Hast thou, (a sacrilege his soul abhors,) i 

Claim'd all the glory of thy prosperous wars ? \ 

Proud of thy fleets and armies, stol'n the gem j 

Of his just praise, to lavish it on them ? | 

Hast thou not learn'd, what thou art ofl^en told, 350 ! 

A truth still sacred, and believ'd of old, j 

That no success depends on spears and swords \ 

Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's .•* ' 

That courage is liis creature, and dismay ! 

The post that at his bidding speeds away, 355 j 

Ghastly in feature, and his stamm'ring tongue 
With doleful rumour and sad presage hung, j 

To quell the valour of the stoutest heart, j 

And teach the combatant a woman's part ? j 

That he bids thousands fly where none pursue, 360 i 

Saves as he will by many or by few, | 

And claims for ever as his royal right, j 

Th' event and sure decision of the fight ? j 



EXPOSTULATION. 75 

Hast thou, tlio' suckled at fair Freedom's breast, 
Exported Slav'ry to the conquered East ? 365 

Pull'd dowm the tyrants India serv'd with dread, 
And rais'd thyself, a greater in their stead ? 
Gone thither arm'd and hungry, return'd full, 
Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 
A despot big with pow'r obtain'd by wealth, 370 

And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth ? 
With Asiatick vices stor'd thy mind, 
But left their virtues and thine own behind ? 
And having truck'd thy soul, brougjit home the fee, 
To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee ? 375 

Hast thou by statute slxov'd from its design 
The Saviour's feast, his own bless'd bread and wine, 
And made the symbols of atoning grace 
An office-key, a picklock to a place, 
That infidels may prove their title good 380 

By an oath dipp'd in saciamental blood ? 
A blot, that will be still a blot, in spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write ; 
And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 385 

And hast thou sworn on ev'ry sUght pretence, 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence, 
While thousands, careless of the damning sin, 
Kiss the book's outside, wJio ne'er look'd within .' 

Hast thou, when Heav'n has cloth'd thee witli dis- 
grace, 390 
And long provok'd, repaid thee to thy face, 
(For thou hast known eclipses, and endur'd, 
Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscur'd, 
WJien sin has shed disliononr on thy brow ; 
And never of a sabler hue than now,) 395 
Hast tnou with heart perverse and conscience sear'd, 
Despising all rebuke, still persever'd. 
And having chosen evil, scorn'd the voice 
That cried. Repent ! — and gloried in thy choice '' 



76 EXPOSTULATION. 

Thy fastings, when calamity at last 400 

Suggests th' expedient of a yearly fast, 

What mean they ? Canst thou dream there is a pow'r 

In lighter diet at a later hour, 

To charm to sleep the threat'ning of the skies, 

And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes ? 405 

The fast that wins deliverance, and suspends 

The stroke that a vindictive God intends, 

la to renoiince hypocrisy ; to draw 

Thy life upon the pattern of the law ; 

To war with pleasure, idoliz'd before ; 410 

To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more. 

All fasting else, whate'er be the pretence, 

Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence. 

Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time 
Brought fire from Heav'n, the sex-abusing crime, 415 
Whose horrid perpetration stamps disgrace, 
Baboons are free from, upon human race ? 
Think on the fruitful and well-water 'd spot 
That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot. 
Where Paradise seem'd still vouchsaf'd on earth, 420 
Burning and scorch'd into perpetual dearth ; 
Or in his words who damn'd the base desire, 
Suff 'ring the vengeance of eternal fire ; 
Then Nature injur'd, scandaliz'd, defil'd, 
Unveil'd her blushing cheek, look'd on, and smil'd ; 425 
Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd, 
And prais'd the wrath that laid her beauties waste. 

Far be the thought from any verse of mine. 
And farther still the form'd and fix'd design, 
To thrust the charge of deeds, that I detest, 430 

Against an innocent unconscious breast ; 
The man that dares traduce, because he can 
With safety to himself, is not a man : 
An individual is a sacred mark 

Not to be pierc'd in play, or in the dark ; 435 

But publick censure speaks a publick foe, 
Unless a zeal for virtue fruide the ])low. 



EXPOSTULATION. 77 

The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
From meaii self-int'rest and ambition clear, 
Their hope in Heav'n, servility their scorn, 440 

Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn, 
Their wisdom pure, and giv'n them from above, 
Their usefulness ensur'd by zeal and love, 
As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
As bold as, in Agrippa's presence, Paul, 445 

Should fly the world's contaminating touch, 
Holy and unpolluted ; — arc thine such ? 
Except a few witli Eli's spirit bless'd, 
Hophni and Phineas ma^y describe the rest. 

Where slioll a teacher look, in days like these, 450 
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please ? 
Look to the poor — the simple and the plain 
Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain ; 
Humility is gentle, apt to learn. 

Speak but the word, will listen and return, 455 

Alas, not so ! — the poorest of the flock 
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock ; 
Denied that earthly opulence they choose, 
God's better gift they scoff at and refuse. 
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem, 4G0 

Are more intelligent at least — try them. 
Oh, vain inquiry ! they, without remorse, 
Are altogether gone a devious course ; 
Where beck'ning Pleasure leads them, wildly stray, 
Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 465 

Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime, 
Review thy dim original and prime. 
This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth, 
The cradle that receiv'd thee at thy birth, 
Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast, 470 
And Danish hov/lings scar'd thee as they pass'd ; 
For thou wast born amid the din of arms, 
And suck'd a breast that panted with alarms. 
While yet thou wast a grov'Iing puling chit. 
Thy bones not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit, 475 



78 EXPOSTULATION. 

The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, 
Though twice a Caesar could not bond thee now . 
His victory was of that orient 3ight, 
When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night. 
Thy language at this distant moment shows 480 

How much th« country to the conqueror owes ; 
Expressive, energetick, and refin'd, 
It sparkles with the gems he left behind ; 
He brought thy land a blessing when he came j 
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame ; 485 

Taught thee to clothe thy pinlc'd and painted hide, 
And grace thy figure with a soldier's pride ; 
He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, 
[mprov'd thee far beyond his own intent, 
And, while he rul'd thee by the sword alone, 490 

Made thee at last a warriour like his own. 
Religion, if in heavenly truths attir'd. 
Needs only to be seen to be admir'd ; 
But thine, as dark as witch'ries of the night, 
Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight ; 495 
Thy Drmds struck the well-hung harps they bore 
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore ; 
And while the victim slowly bled to death, 
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. 
Who brought the lamp, that with awaking beams 
Dispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, 501 
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out. 
Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt ; 
But still light reach'd thee ; and those gods of thine, 
Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine, 505 
Fell, broken and defac'd at his own door, 
As Dagon in Philistia long before. 
But Rome with sorceries and magick wand 
Soon rais'd a cloud, that darken'd ev'ry land ; 
And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog 510 
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog. 
Then priests with bulls, and briefs, and shaven crowna. 
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns, 



EXPOSTULATION. 79 

Legates and delegates withpow'rs from Hell, 
Though heavenly in pretension, fleec'd thee well ; 515 
And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind, 
Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind* 
Thy soldiery, the pope's well-manag'd pack, 
Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the smask. 
And when he laid thorn on the scent of blood, 520 

Would hunt a Saracen through lire and flood. 
Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb, 
That prov'd a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies, 
His wortliless absolution all the prize. 525 

Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore. 
That ever dragg'd a chain or tagg'd an oar ; 
Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 
Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, 
Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress 530 

Found thee a goodly spunge for Power to press. 
Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, 
Provok'd and harass'd, in return plagu'd thee ; 
Call'd thee away from peaceable employ, 
Domestick happiness and rural joy, 535 

To waste thy life in arms, or lay it dov/n 
In causeless feuds and bick'rings of their own. 
Thy parliaments ador'd on bended knees 
Tlie sov'reignty they were conven'd to please ; 
Whatever was ask'd, too timid to resist, 540 

Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd ; 
And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd. 
And blushing at the tameness of the rest, 
Dar'd to suppose the subject had a choice. 
He was a traitor by tlie general voice. 545 

O slave ! with powers thou didst not dare exert, 
Verse carmot stoop so lov/ as thy desert ; 
It shakes the sidos of splenetick Disdain, 
Thou self-entitled ruler of the mam, 
To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea, 550 

That clips thy shores, had no such charms for theo j 
* Which may bo found at Doctors' Commons, 



80 EXPOSTULATION. 

When other nations flew from coast to coast, 
And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. 

Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust ; 
Blush if thou canst ; not petrified, thou must ; 555 

Act but an honest and a faithful part ; 
Compare what then thou wast with what thou art ; 
And God's disposing providence confess'd, 
Obduracy itself must yield the rest — 
Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove, 560 
Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 

Has he not hid thee, and thy favour 'd land, 
For ages safe beneath his shelt'ring hand : 
Giv'n thee his blessing on the clearest proof. 
Bid nations leagu'd against thee stand aloof, 565 

And charg'd Hostility and Hate to roar. 
Where else they would, but not upon thy shore .' 
His power secur'd thee when presumptuous Spain 
Baptiz'd her fleet invincible in vain ; 
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign'd 570 

To ev'ry pang that racks an anxious mind, 
Ask'd of the waves that broke upon his coast, 
What tidings ? and the surge replied — All lost ! 
And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot, 
Then too much fear'd and now too much forgot, 575 
Pierc'd to the very centre of the realm. 
And hop'd to seize his abdicated helm, 
'Twas but to prove how quickly with a frown, 
He that had rais'd thee could have pluck'd thee down. 
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, 580 

Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest ; 
Thy thunders travel over earth and seas. 
And air at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, 
Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, 585 

While his o^vn Heav'n surveys the troubled scene, 
And feels no change, unshaken and serene. 
Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, 
Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 81 

Thou hast as bright an int'rest hi her rays, 590 

As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. 
True freedom is where no restraint is known, 
That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown ; 
Where only vice and injury are tied, 
And all from shore to shore is free beside. 595 

Such freedom is — and Windsor's hoary tow'rs 
Stood trembling at the boldness of thy pow'ra, 
That won a nymph on that immortal plain, 
Like lier the fabled Phoebus woo'd in vain ; 
He found the laurel only — happier you, 600 

Th' unfading laurel and the virgin too !* 

Now think, (if pleasure have a thought to spare, 
If God himself be not beneath her care ; 
If business, constant as the wheels of time. 
Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme ; 605 

If the new mail thy merchants now receive, 
Or expectation of the next give leave,) 
O think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
For such indulgence gilding all thy years, 
How much, though long neglected, shining yet, 610 
The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the debt. 
When persecuting zeal made royal sport 
With tortur'd innocence in Mary's court. 
And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, 
Enjoy 'd the show, and danc'd about the stake ; 615 
The sacred book, its value understood, 
Receiv'd the seal of martyrdom in blood. 
Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, 
Seem to reflection of a different race ; 
Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere, 680 

In such a cause they could not dare to fear ; 
They could not purchase earth with such a prize, 
Or spare a Hfe too short to reach the skies. 



* Alluding to the grant of Magna Charta, which was ex- 
torted from King John by the barons at Runnymede, near 
Windsor. 



82 EXPOSTULATION. 

From them to thee convey'd along the tide, 

Their streaming hearts pour'd freely, when they died ; 

Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, 626 

Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share. 

What dotage will not vanity maintain .' 

What web too weak to catch a modern brain .-• 

The moles and bats in full assembly find 630 

On special search, the keen-ey'd eagle blind. 

And did they dream, and art thou wiser now ? 

Prove it — if better, I submit and bow. 

Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart 

Must hold both sisters, never seen apart. 635 

So then — as darkness overspread the deep, 

Ere Nature rose from her eternal sleep, 

And this delightful earth, and that fair sky, 

Leap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Most High ; 

By such a change thy darloiess is made light, 640 

Thy chaos order, and thy v/eakness might ; 

And He whose pow'r mere nullity obeys, 

Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praise. 

To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, 

Doing and sufFring, his unquestion'd will j 645 

'Tis to believe what men inspir'd of old. 

Faithful, and faithfully inform'd, unfold ; 

Candid and just, with no false aim in view. 

To take for truth what cannot but be true ; 

To learn in God's own school the Christian part, 650 

And bind the task assign'd thee to thine heart : 

Happy the man there seeking and there found, 

Happy the nation where such men abound. 

How shall a verse impress thee ? by what name 
Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame ? 655 

By theirs, whose bright example unimpeach'd, 
Directs thee to that eminence they reach'd, 
Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires .-* 
Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd fires ? 
Their names, alas ! in vain reproach an age, 660 

Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 83 

And His, that seraph's trembled at, is hung 
Disgracefully on ev"ry trifler's tongue. 
Or serves the champion in forensick war 
To flourish and parade with at the bar. 665 

Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea, 
If int'rest move thee, to persuade e'en thee ; 
By ev'ry charm, that smiles upon her face, 
By joys possess'd, and joys still held in chase, 
If dear society be worth a thought, G70 

And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not. 
Reflect that these, and all that seem thine own, 
Pleld by tlie tenure of his will alone, 
Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
Remain with thee, or leave thee at iiis word , 675 

That gratitude and temperance in our use 
Of what he gives, unsparing, and profuse 
Secure the favour, and enhance the joy. 
That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
But, above all. reflect, hov/ cheap soe'er 680 

Those rights that millions envy thee appear, 
And tliough resolv'd to risk them, and swim down 
The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown. 
That blessings truly sacred, and when giv'n, 
Mark'd with the signature and stamp of Heav'n, 085 
The word of prophecy, those truths divine, 
Which make that Heav'n, if thou desire it, thine.. 
Awful alternative ! believ'd, belov'd, 
(Thy glory, and thy shame if unimprov'd.) 
Are never long vouchsaf d, if push'd aside 690 

With cold disgust, or philosophick pride ; 
And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace. 
Errour, and darkness, occupy their place. 
A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
Not quickly found if negligently sought, 695 

Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small, 
Endur'st the brunt, and dar"st defy them all 
And wilt thou join to this bold enterprise, 
A bolder still, a contest with the skies ' 



84 EXPOSTULATION. 

Remember, if He guard thee and secure, 700 

Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure ; 
But if He leave thee, though the skill andpow'r 
Of nations sworn to spoil thee and devour, 
Were all collected in thy single arm, 
And thou could'st laugh away the fear of harm, 705 
That strength would fail, oppos'd against the push 
And feeble onset of a pigmy rush. 
Say not, (and if the thought of such defence 
Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thence,) 
What nation amongst all my foes is free 710 

From crimes as base as any charg'd on me ? 
Their measure fill'd, they too shall pay the debt, 
Which God, though long forborne, will not forget. 
But know that wrath divine, when most severe, 
Makes justice still the guide of his career, 715 

And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, 
Them without light, and thee without a cloud. 
Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, 
Still murm'ring with the solemn truths I teach ; 
And while at intervals a cold blast sings 720 

Through the dry leaves and pants upon the strings, 
My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
A nation scourg'd, yet tardy to repent. 
I know the warning song is sung in vain ; 
That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain ; 725 
But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd 
A blessing to my country and mankind. 
Reclaim the wand'ring thousands, and bring home 
A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam, 
Then place it once again between my knees ; 730 

The sound of truth will then be sure to please : 
And truth alone, where'er my life be cast, 
In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste, 
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last. 



HOPE. 



doceas iter, et sacra ostea pandas. 

ViRG. En. 6. 

ASK what is human life — the sage replies, 
With disappointment low'ring in his eyes, 
A painful passage o'er a restless flood ; 
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good ; 
A scene of fancied bliss and hoart-felt care, 5 

Closing at last in darkness and despair. 
The poor, inurd to drudg'ry and distress, 
Act without aim, think little, and feel less, 
And no where, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes, 
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 10 

Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand, 
As fortune, vice, or folly may command ; 
As in a dance, the pair that take the lead 
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed, 
So shifting and so various is the plan, 15 

By which Heav'n rules the mix'd affairs of man j 
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd, 
TJie rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud ; 
Business is labour, and man's weakness such, 
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much. 20 

The very sense of it foregoes its use, 
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse. 
\'outh lost in dissipation, we deplore, 
Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs rcstoro : 

Vol. I. 8 



86 HOPE. 

Our years a fruitless race without a prize, 25 

Too many, yet too few to make us wise. 

Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, 
Lothario cries, What philosophick stiiff — 
O querulous and weak ! — wliose useless brain 
Once thouglat of nothing, and now thinks in vain ; 30 
Whose eye reverted weeps o'er all the past, 
Whose prospect shows thee a disheart'ning waste : 
Would age in thee resign his wintry reign. 
And youth invigorate that frame again, 
Renew'd desire would grace with other speech 35 

Joys always priz'd, when plac'd within our reach. 

For, hft thy palsied head, shake off the gloom 
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, 
See Nature gay as when she first began. 
With smiles alluring her admirer man ; 40 

She spreads the morning over eastern hills, 
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils ; 
The sun, obedient at her call, appears, 
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears ; 
Banks cloth'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with sprightly 
sounds, 45 

Tlie yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds, 
Streams edg'd with osiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field. 
Where'er they flow, now seen, and now conceal'd ; 
From the blue rim, where skies and mountains meet, 
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet, 50 

Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise, 
Or Pride can look at with indiff rent eyes. 
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
Cry to her universal realm. Rejoice ! 
Man feels the spur of passions and desires ; 55 

And she gives largely more than he requires ; 
Not that his hours devoted all to Care, 
HoUow-ey'd Abstinence, and lean Despair, 
The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, sight. 
She holds a paradise of i ich delight ; 60 



HOPE. 87 

But gently to rebuke his awkward fear, 

To prove that what she gives, she gives sincere. 

To banish hesitation, and proclaim 

His happiness, her dear, her only aim. 

'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream, 65 

That Heav'n's intentions are not what they seem 

That only shadows are dispens'd below, 

And earth has no reality but wo. 

Thus things terrestrial wear a different hue, 
As youth or age persuades ; and neither true. 70 

So Flora's wreath through coloured crystal seen, 
The rose or lily appears blue or green, 
But still th' imputed tints are those alone 
The medium represents, and not their own. 

To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd, 75 

To read the news or fiddle as seems best, 
Till half the world comes rattling at his door. 
To fill the dull vacuity till four ; 
And, just when ev'ning turns the blue vault gray, 
To spend two hours in dressing for the day : 80 

To make the Sun a bauble without use. 
Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce : 
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought. 
Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not ; 
Through mere necessity to close his eyes 85 

Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise : 
Is such a life, so tediously the same, 
So void of all utility or aim, 
That poor Jonquil, with almost ev'ry breath, 
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd death : 90 

For he, with e^ll his follies, has a mind 
Not ye't so blank, or fashionably blind, 
But now and then perhaps a feeble ray 
Of distant wisdom shoots across his way ; 
By which he reads, that life without a plan, 95 

As useless as the moment it began, 
Serves merely as a soil for discontent 
To thrive in ; an incvmibrancc ere half spent. 



88 HOPE. 

O weariness beyond what asses feel, 

That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel ; lOO 

A dull rotation, never at a stay. 

Yesterday's face twin image of to-day ; 

While conversation, an exhausted stock, 

Grows drowsy as the clickincr of a clock. 

No iieed he cries^ of gTavity stuft'd out 105 

With academick dignity devout, 

To read wise lectures, vanity the text ; 

Proclaim the remedy, 3'e learned, next ; 

For truth self-evident, with pomp impress'd, 

Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 110 

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound, 
Yet seldom sought where only to be found, 
While passion turns aside from its due scope 
Th' inquirer s aim, that remedy is hope. 
Life is his gift, from whom v/hate'er hfe needs, 115 
With ev'ry good and perfect gift proceeds ; 
Bestow'd on man, like all that we partalte, 
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake ; 
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour, 
And yet the seed of an immortal flow'r ; 120 

Designed in honour of his endless love, 
To fill with fragance his abode above ; 
No trifle, howsoever short it seem. 
And howsoever shadowy, no dream ; 
Its value what no thought can ascertain, 125 

Nor all an angel's eloquence explain. 
Men deal with life as children v/ith their play, 
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
Live to no sober purpose, and contend 
That their Creator had no serious end. 130 

When God and man stand opposite in view, 
Man's disappointment must of course ensue. 
The just Creator condescends to write. 
In beams of inextinguishable light, 
Plis names of wisdom, goodness, pow'r, and love, 135 
On all that blooms below, or shines above 3 



HOPE. 89 

To catch tlie wand'ring notice of mankind, 
And teach the world, if not perversely blind, 
His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
His ofFs[)ring hold in his paternal care. 140 

If, led from earthly things to things divine, 
His creature thwart not his august design, 
Then praise is heard instead of reas'ning pride, 
And captious cavil and complaint subside. 
Nature employ'd in her allotted place, 345 

Is handmaid to the purposes of Grace ; 
By good vouchsaf'd makes knovv'n superiour good, 
And bliss not seen by blessings understood : 
That bliss, reveal'd in Scripture, with a glow 
Bright as the covenant ensuring bow, 150 

Fires all his feelings v/ith a noble scorn 
Of sensual evil, and thus hope is born. 
Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
That men have deem'd substantial since the fall ; 
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 155 

From emptiness itself a real use ; 
And while she takes, as at a father's hand, 
What health and sober appetite demand. 
From fading good derives, with chemick art, 
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. 160 

Hope with uplifted foot, set free from earth, 
Pants for tiie place of her ethereal birth, 
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss, 
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss. 
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here 165 
Wi.th wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast 
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. 
Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure. 170 

Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy. 
Whom now despairing agonies destroy, 
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, 
What treasures centre, what delights in thee. 



DO HOPE. 

Had he the gems, the spices, and the land, 175 

That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 

The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine, 

Were light, Avhen weigh'd against one smile of thine. 

Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's arms, 
He shines with all a cherub's artless charms. 180 

Man is the genuine offspring of revolt, . 
Stubborn and sturdy as a wild ass' colt ; 
His passions, like the wat'ry stores that sleep 
Beneath the smiling surface of the deep, 
Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm, 185 

To frown, and roar, and shake his feeble form. 
From infancy through childhood's giddy maze 
Froward at scliool, and fretful in his plays, 
The puny tyrant burns to subjugate 
The free republick of the whipgig state. 190 

If one^ his equal in athletick frame, 
Or, more provoking still, of nobler name, 
Dare step across his arbitrary views, 
An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues ; 
The little Greeks look trembling at the scales, 195 
Till the best tongue, or heaviest hand prevails. 

Now see him launch'd into the world at large ; 
If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge, 
Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, 
Though short, too long, the price he pays for all. 200 
If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead, 
But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 
Perhaps a grave physician, gath'ring fees. 
Punctually paid for length'ning out disease; 
No Cotton^ whose humanity sheds rays 205 

That make superiour skill his second praise. 
If arms engage him, he devotes to sport 
His date of life, so likely to be short ; 
A soldier may be any thing, if brave, 
So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 210 

Such stuff the world is made of: and mankind 
To passion, int'r :st, pleasure, whim, resign'd, 



HOPE. 91 

Insist on, as if each w ere his own pope, 

Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope. 

But Conscience, in some awful, silent hour, 215 

When captivating lusts have lost their pow'r. 

Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, 

Reminds him of religion, hated theme ! 

Starts from the down, on which she lately slept, 

And tells of laws despis'd, at least not kept : 220 

Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 

A pale procession of past sinful joys. 

All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd, 

And life abus'd, and not to be suborn'd. 

Mark these, she says ; these suramon'd from afar, 223 

Begin their march to meet thee at the bar ; 

There find a judge inexorably just, 

And perish there, as all presumption must. 

Peace be to those, (such peace as earth can give,) 
Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; 230 
Born, capable, indeed, of heav'nly truth ; 
But down to latest age, from earliest youth, 
Their mind a wilderness through want of care, 
The plough of wisdom never enfring there. 
Peace, (if insensibility may claim 235 

A right to the meek honours of her name,) 
To men of pedigree, their noble race, 
Emulous always of the nearest place 
To any throne, except the throne of Grace. 
Let cottagers and unenlighten'd swains 240 

Revere the laws they dream 'd that Heav'n ordains ; 
Resort on Sundays to the house of pray'r, 
And ask, and fancy they find blessings there. 
Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat 
T' enjoy cool nature in a country seat, 245 

T' exchange the centre of a thousand trades, 
For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cascades, 
May now and then their velvet cushions take , 
And seem to pray, for good example sake ; 



f^ HOPE. 

Judging, in charity, no doubt, the town 250 

Pious enough, and having need of none. 

Kind souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize 

What they themselves, without remorse despise : 

Nor hope have they, nor fear of aught to come, 

As well for them had prophecy been dumb ; 255 

They could have held the conduct they pursue, 

Had Paul of Tarsus liv'd and died a Jew ; 

And truth, propos'd to reas'ners wise as they, 

Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. 

They die — Death lends them, pleas'd, and as in 

sport, 260 

All the grim honours of his ghastly court. 
Far other paintings grace the chamber now, 
Where late we saw the mijnick landscape glow : 
The busy heralds rang the sable scene 
With mournful scutcheons, and dim lamps between ; 
Proclaim their titles to tlie crowd around, 266 

But they that wore them move not at the sound ; 
The coronet plac'd highly at their head. 
Adds nothing now to the degraded dead ; 
And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier, 270 

Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend, 
By useless censure, whom we cannot mend j 
Life without hope can close but in despair, 
'Twas there we found them, and must leave them 

there. 275 

As when two pilgrims in a forest stray. 
Both may be lost, yet each in his own way j 
So fares it with the multitudes beguii'd 
In vain Opinion's waste and dang'rous wild ; 
Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, 280 
Some eastward, and some westward, and all wrong. 
But here, alas ! the fatal diff'rence lies, 
Each man's belief is right in his own eyes ; 
And he that blames what they have blindly chose, 
Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 285 



HOPE. 93 

Say, botanist, within who:ve province fall 
The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, 
Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bow'rs , 
What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flow'rs ? 
Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combin'd, 290 
Distinguish ev'ry cultivated kind ; 
The want of both denotes a meaner breed, 
And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
Thus hopes of ev'ry sort, whatever sect 
Esteem them, sow them, rear them, and protect. 295 
If wild in nature, and not duly found, 
Gethsemane ! in thy dear hallow'd ground, 
That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light, 
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight, 
Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, 300 

(Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant weeds. 

Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways, 
Diverging each from each, like equal rays, 
Himself as bountiful as April rains. 
Lord paramount of the surrounding plains, 305 

Would give relief of bed and board to none, 
But guests that sought it in th' appointed One ; 
And they might enter at his open door, 
E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. 
He sent a servant forth, by ev'ry road, 310 

To sound his horn, and publish it abroad. 
That all might mark — knight, menial, high, and low, 
An ord'nance it concern'd them much to know. 
If after all some headstrong hardy lout 
Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, 315 

Could he with reason murmur at his case. 
Himself sole author of his own disgrace ? 
No ' the decree was just and witliout flaw ; 
And he that made, had right to make the law ; 
His sov'reign power, and pleasure unrestrain'd, 320 
The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd. 

Yet half majikind maintains a churlish strife 
With Him, the Donor of eternal life, 



94 HOPE. 

Because the deed, by which his love confirms 

The largess h^ bestows, prescribes the terms. 325 

Compliance with his will your lot ensures, 

Accept it only, and the boon is yours. 

And sure it is as kind to smile and give, 

As with a frown to sa.y, Do this, and live. 

Love is not pedler's trunip'ry, bought and sold • 330 

He icitt give freely, or he toili withhold j 

His soul abhors a mercenary thought. 

And him as deeply who abhors it not ; 

He stipulates, indeed, but merely this. 

That man will freely take an unbought bliss, 335 

Will trust him for a faithful gen'rous part, 

Nor set a price upon a willing heart. 

Of all the wLys that seem to promise fair, 

To place you where his saints his presence share. 

This only can; for this plain cause, express'd 340 

In terms as plain — Himself has shut the rest. 

But oil the strife, the biok'riug, and debate, 

The tidings of unpurchas'd Heav'n create 1 

The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss, 

All speakers, yet all language at a loss. 345 

From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound J 

And beaux, adepts in ev'ry thing profound, 

Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. 

Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites, 

Th' explosion of the levell'd tube excites, 350 

Where mould'ring abbey walls o'erhang the glado, 

And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade. 

The screaming nations, hov'ring in mid air, 

Loudly resent the stranger's freedom there, 

And seem to warn him never to repeat 355 

His bold intrusion on their dark retreat. 

Adieu, Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips 
The purple bumper trembling at his lips — 
Adieu to all morality ! if Grace 
Make works a vain ingredient in the case. 360 



HOPE. 95 

The Christian hcpe is — "Waiter, draw the cork — 

If I mistake not — Blockhead ! with a fork ! 

Without good works, whatever some may boast, 

Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. 

My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes, 365 

That Heav'n will weigh man's virtues and his crimes 

With nice attention, in a righteous scale, 

And save or damn as these or those prevail. 

I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, 

And silence ev'ry fear with — God is just. 370 

But if, perchance, on some dull, drizzling day, 

A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say. 

If thus th' important cause is to be tried. 

Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side ; 

I soon recover from these needless frights, 375 

And God is merciful — sets all to rights. 

Thus between justice, as my prime support, 

And mercy, fled to as the last resort, 

I glide and steal along with Heav'n in view, 

And — pardon me, the bottle stands with you. 380 

I never will believe, the colonel cries. 
The sanguinary schemes that some devise. 
Who make the good Creator on their plan, 
A being of less equity than man. 

If appetite, or what divines call lust, 385 

Which men comply v/ith, e'en because they must, 
Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure ? 
Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure. 
If sentence of eternal pain belong 

To ev'ry sudden slip and transient wrong, 390 

Then Heav'n enjoins the fallible and frail 
A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. 
My creed, (whatever some creed-makers mean 
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene,) 
My creed is, he is safe, that does his best, 395 

And death's a doom sufficient for the rest. 

Right, says an ensign j and for aught I see 
Your faith and mine substantially agree ; 



0C HOPE. 

Tho best of ev'ry man's porformancc here 

Is to discharge ths duties of bis sphere. 400 

A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, 

Honesty slilnes witli great advantage there. 

Fasting and pray'r sit well upon a priest, 

A decent caution and reserve at least. 

A soldier's best is courage in the field, 405 

With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd. 

Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay ; 

A hand as lib'ral as the light of day. 

The soldier thus endow'd who never shrinks, 

Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks, 410 

Who scorns to do an injury by stealth. 

Must go to Heav'n — and 1 must drink his health. 

Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board, 

Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord. 

His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug 415 

How much his feehngs suffer'd, sat Sir Smug,) 

Your office is to winnow false from true ; 

Come, Prophet, drink, and tell us. What think you ? 

Sighing and smiling as he talves his glass. 
Which they that v.^oo preferment R.rely pass, 420 

Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies, 
Is still found fallible, however wise ; 
And differing judgments serve but to declare, 
That truth Ires somewhere, if we knew but where. 
Of all it ever was my lot to read, 425 

Of criticks now alive, or long since dead. 
The book of all the world that charm d me most 
Was — well-a-day — the title page was lost ; 
The writer well remarks, a heart that knows 
To take with gratitude what Heav'n bestows, 430 
With prudence always ready at our call. 
To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
Doubtless it is — To which, of my own store, 
I superadd a few essentials more ; 
But these, excuse the liberty I tal^e, 436 

I wave just now, for conversation's sake. — 



HOPE. 97 

Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, 

And add Right Rev'rend to Smug's honour'd name. 

And yet our lot is giv'n us in a land, 
Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 440 

Where Science points her telescopick eye, 
Familiar with the wonders of the sky ; 
Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight. 
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light ; 
Where naught eludes the persevering quest, 445 

That fashion, taste, or luxury, suggest. 

But above all, in her ov/n light array'd, 
See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd ' 
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong, 
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue ; 450 

But speaks with plainness, art could never mend. 
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend. 
God gives the word, the preachers throng around, 
Live from liis lips, and spread the glorious sound ; 
That sound bespeaks Salvation on her way, 455 

The trumpet of a life-restoring day ; 
'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines, 
And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines. 
And still it spreads. See Germany send forth 
Her sons* to pour it on the farthest north : 460 

Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy 
The rage and rigour of a polar sky, 
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose 
On icy plains, and in eternal snows. 

O bless'd within th' enclosure of your rocks, 465 
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks ; 
No fertilizmg streams your fields divide, 
That show revers'd the villas on their side ; 
No groves have ye ; no cheerful sound of bird, 
Or voice of turtle in your land is heard ; 470 

Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
Of those that walk at ev'ning where ye dwell ; 

* The Moravian Missionaries in Greenland. See Krantz. 
Vol. I. 9 



98 HOPE. 

But winter, arm'd with terrours here unknown, 

Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; 

Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 475 

And bids the mountains he has built stand fast : 

Beckons the legions of his storms away 

From happier scenes, to make your land a prey ; 

Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, 

And scorns to share it with the distant Sun. 480 

— Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ! 

And Peace, the genuine oiFspring of her smile; 

The pride of letter'd Ignorance that binds 

In chains of errour our accomplish'd minds, 

That decks with all the splendour of the true, 485 

A false religion is unknown to you. 

Nature, indeed, vouchsafes for our delight 

The sweet vicissitudes of day and night : 

Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 

Field, fruit, and fiow'r, and ev'ry creature here j 490 

But brighter beams than his who fires the skies, 

Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes, 

That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 

From which our nicer opticks turn away. 

Here see the encouragement Grace gives to vice. 
The dire effect of mercy without price ! 496 

What were they ? what some fools are made by art, 
They were by nature, atheists head and heart. 
The jrross idolatry blind heathens teach, 
Was too refin'd for them, beyond their reach. 500 

Not e'en the glorious Sun, though men revere 
The monarch most, that seldom will appear, 
And tho' his beams, that quicken where they shine. 
May claim some right to be esteem'd divine. 
Not e'en the Sun, desirable as rare, 505 

Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; 
They were, what base Credulity believes 
True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves : 
The full-gorg'd savage, at his nauseous feast 
Spsnt half the darkness, and snor'd out the rest, 510 



HOPE. 99 

Was one, whom Justice, on an equal plan 
Denouncing death upon the sins of man, 
Might almost have indulg'd with an escape, 
Chargeable only with a human shape. 

What are tliey now ? — Morality may spare 515 

Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there : 
The wretch, who once sang wildly, danc'd, and laugh'd. 
And suck'd in dizzy madness with kis draught, 
Has wept a silent flood, revers'd his ways. 
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, 520 

Feeds sparingly, communicates his store. 
Abhors the craft he boasted of before. 
And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. 
Well spake the prophet — Let the desert sing, 
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shdl spring, 525 
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew, 
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. 

Go now, and with important tone demand 
On what foundation virtue is to stand, 
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift, 530 

And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; 
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes 
Glist'ning at once with pity and surprise, 
Amaz'd that shadows should obscure the sight 
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light, 535 

Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free, 
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. 

These amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
The common care that waits on all beside, 
Wild as if Nature there, void of all good, 540 

Play'd only gambols in a frantick mood 
(Yet charge not heaventy skill with having plann'd 
A play thing world, unworthy of his hand ;) 
Can see his love, though secret evil lurks 
In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works ; 545 

Deem life a blessing with its num'rous woes, 
Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 



100 HOPE. 

Hard task indeed o'er arctick seas to roam ! 

Is hope exotick ? grows it not at home '' 

Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn, 550 

May press the eye too closely to be borne ; 

A distant virtue we can all confess. 

It hurts our pride, and moves our envy less. 

Leuconomus, (beneath well-sounding Greek, 
I slur a name, a poet must not speak,) 555 

Stood pilloried on Infamy's high stage, 
And bore the pelting scorn of half an age : 
The very butt of Slander, and the blot 
For ev'ry dart that Malice ever shot. 
The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd 560 
All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd ; 
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, 
And Perjury stood up to swear all true ; 
His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence, 
His speech rebellion against common sense ; 565 

A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; 
The World's best comfort was, his doom was pass d : 
Die when he might, he must be damn'd at last. 

Now, Truth, perform thine office ; waft aside 570 
The curtain drawn by Prejudice and Pride, 
Reveal, (the man is dead) to wond'ring eyes, 
This more than monster in his proper guise. 
He lov'd the world that hated him ; the tear 
That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere : 475 

Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife. 
His only answer w?^ a blameless life ; 
And he that forg'd, and he that threw the dart, 
Had each a brother's int'rest in his heart. 
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbrib'd, 480 

Were copied close in him, and well transcrib'd. 
He follow'd Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. 
His apostolick charity the same, 
liike him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas. 
Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ; 585 



HOPE. 101 

Like him he labour'd, and Hke him content 

To bear it, suffer'd shame where'er he went. 

Blush Calumny ! and write upon his tomb, 

If honest Eulogy can spare thee room, 

Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, 590 

Which, aim'd at him, have pierc'd th' offended skies ! 

And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplor'd, 

Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord ! 

No blinder bigot, I maintain it still. 
Than he who must have pleasure, come what will : 
He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, 596 
And deems her sharp artillery mere straw. 
Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he 
On Scripture ground are sure to disagree ; 
Some wiser rule must teach Iiim how to live, 600 

Than this his Maimer has seen fit to give ; 
Supple and flexible as Indian cane. 
To take the bend his appetites ordain ; 
Contriv'd to suit frail Nature's crazy case, 
And reconcile his lust wnth saving grace. 605 

By this, with nice precision of design. 
He draws upon life's map a zigzag line. 
That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin. 
And where his danger and God's wrath begin. 
By this he forms, as pleas'd he sports along, CIO 

His well-pois'd estimate of right and wrong ; 
And finds the modish manners of the day, 
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. 

Build by whatever plan Caprice decrees, 
With what materials, on what ground you please ; 615 
Your hope shall stand unblam'd, perhaps admir'd. 
If not that hope the Scripture has requir'd. 
The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild dreams, 
With which hypocrisy for ever teems, 
(Though other follies strike the publick eye, 620 

And raise a laugh,) pass unmolested by ; 
But if, unblamable in word or thought, 
A 7naJi arise, a man whom God has taught 



102 HOPE. 

With all Elijah's dignity of tone, 

And all the love of the beloved John, 625 

To storm the citadels they build in air, 

And smite the untemper'd wall ; 'tis death to spare 

To sweep away all refag-es of lies, 

And place, instead of quirks themselves devise. 

Lama sahacthani before their eyes ; 630 

To prove, that without Christ all gain is loss, 

All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; 

Except the few his God may have impressed, 

A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. 

Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at lea&t, 
There dwells a consciousness in ev'ry breast, 636 

That folly ends where genuine hope begins. 
And he that finds his Heav'n must lose his sins. 
Nature opposes with her utmost force 
This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce ; 640 

And, while religion seems to be her view, 
Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
For this, of all that ever influenc'd man, 
Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, 
This only spares no lust, admits no plea, 645 

But makes him, if at all, completely free ; 
Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car, 
Of an eternal, universal war ; 

Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, 649 

Scorns with the same indiff'rence frowns and smiles ; 
Drives through the realms of Sin, where Riot reels, 
And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels ! 
Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art, 
Pow'rs of the mind, and feelings of the heart, 
Insensible of Truth's almighty charms, 655 

Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! 
While Bigotry, with well-dissembled fears, 
His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears. 
Mighty to parry and push by God's word 
With senseless noise, his argument the sword, 660 



HOPE. 103 

Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace, 
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine own : 
The silent progress of thy pow'r is such, 665 

Thy means so feeble, and despis'd so much, 
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought, 
And none can teach them, but whom thou hast taught, 
O see me sworn to serve thee, and command 
A painter's skill into a poet's hand, 670 

That while I trembling trace a work divine, 
Fancy may stand aloof from the design. 
And light, and shade, and ev'ry stroke be thine. 

If ever thou hast felt another's pain : 
[f ever when he sigh'd, hast sigh'd again ; 675 

If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear 
That pity had engender'd, drop one here. 
This man was happy — had the World's good word, 
And with it ev'ry joy it can afford ; 
Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, 680 

Which most should sv/eeten his untroubled life ; 
Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race. 
Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
And whether at the toilette of the fair 
He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there ; 685 
Or if in masculine debate he shar'd, 
Ensur'd him mute attention and regard. 
Alas, how chang'd ! Expressive of his mind, 
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclin'd ; 
Those awful syllables. Hell, death, and sin, 690 

Though whisper'd plainly, tell what works within , 
That Conscience there performs her proper part, 
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart ; 
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends, 
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends 695 
Hard task ! for one who lately knew no care, 
And harder still as learn'd beneath despair ; 



104 HOPE. 

His hours no longer pass unmark'd away, 

A dark importance saddens ev'ry day ; 

He hears the notice of the clock perplex'd, 700 

And cries, Perhaps eternity strikes next ; 

Sweet musick is no longer musick here, 

And laughter sounds like madness in his ear ; 

His grief the world of all her pow'r disarms. 

Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms j 705 

God's holy word, once trivial in his view, 

Now by the voice of his experience true. 

Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone 

Must spring that hope he pants to make his own 

Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; 710 
Say man's a worm, and pow'r belongs to God. 

As when a felon, whom his country's laws 
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, 
Expects in darkness and heart chilling fears, 
The shameful close of all his mispent years ; 715 

If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, 
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn, 
Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play, 
The thunder seems to summon him away. 
The warder at the door his key applies, 720 

Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies 
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, 
When hope, long ling 'ring, at last yields the ghost. 
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear. 
He drops at once his fetters and his fear ; 725 

A transport glows in all he looks and speaks. 
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. 
Joy, far superiour joy, that much outweighs 
The comfort of a few poor added days. 
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul 730 

Of him, whom Hope has Avith a touch made whole. 
'Tis Heav'n, all Heav'n descending on the w^ings 
Of the glad legions of the King of kings ; 
'Tis more — 'tis God diffus'd through ev'ry part, 
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart 735 



HOPE. 105 

O welcome now the Sun's once hated light 
His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
Not kindred minds alone are call'd t' employ 
Their hours, their days, in list'ning to his joy ; 
Unconscious nature all that he surveys, 740 

Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in hia 
praise. 

These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
The scoff of withered age and beardless youth : 
These move the censure and illib'ral grin 
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin : 745 

But these shall last when night has quench'd the 

pole. 
And Heav'n is all departed as a scroll. 
And when, as Justice has long since decreed, 
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, 
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share 
That hope, which can alone exclude despair, 751 

Shall live exempt from weakness and decay. 
The brightest wonders of an endless day. 

Happy the bard, (if that fair name belong 
To him that blends no fable with his song,) 755 

Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, 
The faithful monitor's, and poet's part. 
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, 
And while they captivate, inform the mind : 
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil, 760 

And fruit reward his honourable toil : 
But happier far, who comfort those that wait 
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow 'd gate : 
Their language simple, as their manners meek ; 
No shining ornaments have they to seek } 765 

Nor labour they, nor time, nor talents waste, 
In sorting flow'rs to suit a fickle taste ; 
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies, 
Which art can onl}'' darken and disguise, 
Th' abundant harvest, recompense divine, 770 

Repays their work — the gleaning only mine. 



■-11 



CHARITY. 



Quo nihil majus jneliusve terris 
Fata donavere, bonique divi ; ^ 
Nee dabuiii, quamvis redearU in 
Tempora priscum. 

HoR. lib. iv. Od. 2. 



FAIREST and foremost of the train, that wait 
On man's most dignified and happiest state, 
Wliether we name thee Charity or Love, 
Chief grace below, and all in all above, 
Prosper, (I press thee with a pow'rful plea,) 5 

A task I venture on, impell'd by thee : 
O never seen but in thy bless'd effects. 
Or felt but in the soul that Heav'n selects ; 
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 10 

Come, prompt me with benevolent desires, 
Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires. 
And though disgrac'd and slighted, to redeem 
A poet's name, by making thee the theme. 

God, working ever on a social plan, 15 

By various ties attaches man to man : 
He made at first, though free and unconfin'd, 
One man the common father of the kind ; 
That ev'ry tribe, though plac'd as he sees best, 
Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, 20 



CHARITY. 107 

DifTring in language, manners, or in face, 

Might feel themselves allied to all the race. 

When Cook — lamented, and with tears as just 

As ever mingled with heroick dust, 

Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown, 25 

And in his country's glory sought his own, 

Wherever lire found man, to nature true, 

The rights of man ware sacred in his view ; 

He sooth'd with gifts, and greeted with a smile, 

The simple native of the new-found isle ; 30 

He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood 

The tender argument of kindred blood, 

Nor would endure that any should control 

His freeborn brethren of the southern pole. 

But though some nobler minds a law respect, 35 
That none shall with impunity neglect. 
In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet. 
To thwart its influence and its end defeat. 
While Cook is lov'd for savage lives he sav'd, 
See Cortez odious for a world enslav'd ! 40 

Where wast thou then, sweet Charity ! where then 
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men ; 
Wast thou in monkish cells and nunn'ries found, 
Or building hospitals on English ground ? 
No. — Mammon makes the world his legatee 45 

Through fear, not love : and Heav'n abhors the fee : 
Wherever found, (and all men need thy care,) 
Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
The hand that slew till it could slay no more. 
Was glued to the sword hilt with Indian gore. 50 

Their prince, as justly seated on Mb throne. 
As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
Trick'd out of all his royalty by art. 
That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest heart, 
Died by the sentence of a shaven priest, 55 

For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze 
Of Heav'n's mysterious purposes and ways ; 



108 CHARITY. 

God stood not, though he seem'd to stand, aloof; 
And at this hour the conqu'ror feels the proof; 
The wreath he won drew down an instant curse, 
The fretting plague is in the publick purse, 
The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state, 
Starv'd by that indolence their mines create. 

O could their ancient Incas rise again. 
How would they take up Israel's taunting strain I 
Art thou too fall'n, Iberia ? Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we ? 
Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dar'd despise 
Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies. 
Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid 
Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
We come with joy from our eternal rest. 
To see th' oppressor in his turn oppress'd. 
Art thou the god, the thunder of whose hand 
Roird over all our desolated land, 
Shook principalities and kingdoms down. 
And made the mountains tremble at his frown ? 
The sword shall light upon thy boasted pow'rs, 
And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 
"Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, 
A.nd Vengeance executes what Justice wills. 

Again — the band of commerce was design'd 
T' associate all the branches of mankind ; 
And if a boundless plenty be the robe, 
Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
Wise to promote whatever end he means, 
God opens fruitful nature's various scenes . 
Each climate needs what other cUmes produce, 
And offers something to the gen'ral use ; 
No land but listens to the common call, 
And in return receives supply from all. 
This genial intercourse, and mutual aid, 
Cheers what were else a universal shade, 
Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den. 
And softens human rock-work into men. 



60 



65 



70 



75 



80 



90 



95 



CHARITY. 109 

Ingenious Art, with her expressive face, 

Steps forth to fashion and refine the race ; 

Not only fills necessity's demand, 

But overcharges her capacious hand : 100 

Capricious taste itself can crave no more 

Than she supplies from her abounding store : 

She strikes out all that luxury can ask. 

And gains new vigour at her endless task. 

Her's is the spacious arch, the shapely spire, 105 

The painter's pencil, and the poet's lyre ; 

From her the canvass borrows light and shade, 

And verse, more lasting, hues that never fade. 

She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys, 

Gives difficulty all the grace of ease, 110 

And pours a torrent of sweet notes around. 

Fast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound. 

These are the gifts of Art, and Art thrives most 
Where Commerce has enrich'd the busy coast. 
He catches all improvements in his flight, 115 

Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight. 
Imports what others have invented well. 
And stirs his own to match them, or excel. 
'Tis thus reciprocating, each with each. 
Alternately the nations learn and teach ; 120 

While Providence enjoins to ev'ry soul 
A union with the vast terraqueous whole. 

Heav'n speed the canvass, gallantly unfurl'd 
To furnish and accommodate a world. 
To give the pole the produce of the sun, 125 

And knit th' unsocial climates into one. — 
Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
Impel the fleet, whose errand is to save. 
To succour wasted regions, and replace 
The smile of Opulence in Sorrow's face.— 130 

Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen. 
Impede the bark, that ploughs the deep serene. 
Charg'd with a freight, transcending in its worth 
The gems of India, Nature's rarest birth, 

Vol. I. 10 



110 CHARITY 

That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, 135 

A herald of God's love to pagan lands. 

But ah ! what wish can prosper, or what pray'r, 

For merchants rich in cargoes of despair, 

Who drive a loathsome traffick, gauge, and span, 

And buy the muscles and the bones of man ? 140 

The tender ties of father, husband, friend. 

All bonds of nature in that moment end ; 

And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, ! 

A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. 1 1 

The sable warriour, frantick with regret 145 ^ j 

Of her he loves, and never can forget, 

Loses in tears the far-receding shore, 

But not the thought, that they must meet no more ; j 

Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow, 

What has he left, that he can yet forego ? 150 

Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd, 

He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; 

Puts off his gen'rous nature ; and, to suit 

His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. 

O most degrading of all ills, that wait 155 

On man, a mourner in his best estate ! 
All other sorrows Virtue may endure. 
And find submission more than half a cure , 
Grief is itself a med'cinc, and bestow'd 
T' improve the fortitude that bears the load, 16Q 

To teach the wand'rer, as his woes increase, 
The path of Wisdom, all whose paths are peace j 
But slav'ry ! — Virtue dreads it as her grave : 
Patience itself is meanness in a slave ', 
Or if the will and sov'reignty of God 165 

Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day. 
And snap the chain the moment when you may. i 

Nature imprints upon whate'er we see, | j 

That has a heart and life in it, Be free : 170 

The beasts are charter'd — neither age nor force 
Cau quell the love of freedom in a horse : 



CHARITY. Ill 

He breaks tlie cord, that held hhii at the rack ; 

And conscious of an unencumber'd back, 

SmiiTs up the jnorning air, forgets the rein ; 175 

Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane ; 

Responsive lo the distant neigh he neighs ; 

Nor stops till, overleaping all delays, 

He finds the pasture where his fellows graze. 

Canst thou, and honour'd with a Christian name, 
Buy what is woman born, and feel no shame ; 181 

Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
Expedience as a warrant for the deed ? 
So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 
To quit the forest and invade the fold : 185 

So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide, 
Dagger m hand, steals close to your bedside , 
Not he, but his emergence, forc'd the door, 
He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
Has God then giv'n its sweetness to the cane, 190 

Unless his laws be trampled on — in vain ? 
Built a Drave world, which cannot yet subsist, 
Unless his right to nile it be dismiss'd .' 
Impudent blasphemy ! So Folly pleads. 
And Av'rice being judge, with ease succeeds. 195 

But grant the plea, and let it stand for just, 
That man makes man his prey, because he must ; 
Still there is room for pity to abate 
And sooth the sorrows of so sad a state. 
A Briton knows, or if he knows it not, 200 

The scripture plac'd within his reach, he ought, 
Thac souls have no discriminating hue. 
Alike important in their Maker's view ) 
That none are free from blemish since the fall, 
And Love divine has paid one price for all. 205 

The wretch that works and weeps without relief. 
Has one that notices his silent grief. 
He, from whose hands alone all pow'r proceeds, 
Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, 



112 CHARITY. 

Considers all injustice with a frown ; 21C 

But marks the man, that treads his fellow down. 

Begone — the whip and bell in that hard hand 

Are hateful ensigns of usurp'd command. 

Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 

To scourge him, weariness his ordy blame. 215 

Remember, Heavn has an avenging rod ; 

To smite the poor is treason against God. 

Trouble is grudgingly, and hardly brook'd, 

While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd : 

We wander o'er a sun-burnt thirsty soil, 220 

Murm'ring and weary of our daily toil, 

Forget t' enjoy the palm-tree's ofFer'd shade, 

Or taste the fountain in the neighbouring glade : 

Else who would lose that had the pow'r to improve : 

The occasion of transmuting fear to love .' 225 

'tis a godlike privilege to save. 
And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 

*' Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, 230 

And slaves, by truth enlarg'd, are doubly freed. 

Then would he say, submissive at thy feet, 

While gratitude and love made service sweet, 

My dear deliv'rer out of hopeless night. 

Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 235 

1 was a bondman on my native plain. 

Sin forg'd, and Ignorance made fast the chain*, 

Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew. 

Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; 

Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 240 

For Africa's once lov'd, benighted shore ; 

Serving a benefactor I am free ; 

At my best home, if not exil'd from thee. 

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds 

A stream of lib'ral and heroick deeds ; S45 

The swell of pity, not to be confin'd 

Within the scanty limits of the mind, 



CHARITY. 113 

Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 

A rich deposit on the bord'ring lands : 

These have an ear for his paternal call, 250 

Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; 

God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ ; 

And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 

O could I worship aught beneath the skies, 
That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, 255 

Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 
With fragrant turf, and flow'rs as wild and fair 
As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. 
Duly as ever on the mountain's height 260 

The peep of morning shed a dawning light ; 
Again when Ev'ning in her sober vest 
Drew the gray curtain of the fading west, 
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise, 
For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 265 

But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine, 
But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine • 
Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly 
A captive bird into the boundless sky. 
This triple realm adores thee — thou art come 270 

From Sparta hither, and art here at home. 
We feel thy force still active, at this hour 
Enjoy immunity from priestly pow'r, 
While Conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
Owns no superiour but the God she fears. 275 

Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffer'd and our land, too long. 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care. 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 280 

To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
Are mighty.mischicfs, not to be withstood ; 
And honest Merit stands on siipp'ry ground 
Where covert guile and artifice abound 285 

10* 



114 CHARITY. 

Let just Restraint, for publick peace design'd, 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
But let insolvent Innocence go free. 

Patron of else the most despis'd of men, 290 

Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; 
Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed, 
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 
I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame, 
(Charity chosen as my theme and aim,) 295 

I must incur, forgetting Howard's name. 
Bless'd with all wealth can give thee, to resign 
Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine, 
To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow. 
To seek a nobler amidst scenes of wo, 300 

To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring home, 
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome, 
I But knowledge such as only dungeons teach, 

I And only sympathy like thine could reach ; 

That grief, sequester'd from the publick stage, 305 
I Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage j 

j Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal, 

j The boldest patriot might be proud to feel. 

O that the voice of clamour and debate. 
That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, 310 

Were hush'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea. 
The poor thy clients, and Heav'n's smile thy fee ! 
Philosophy, that does not dream or stray. 
Walks arm in arm with Nature all his way : 
Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends 315 

Whatever step Inquiry recommends. 
Sees planetar}'^ wonders smoothly roU 
Round other systems under her control. 
Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light 
That cheers the silent journey of the night, 320 

And brings at his return a bosom charg'd 
With rich instruction, and a soul enlarg'd 



CHARITY. 115 

The treasur'd sweets of the capacious plan, 
That Heav'n spreads wide before the view of man, 
All prompt his pleas'd pursuit, and to pursue 325 

Still prompt him with a pleasure always new ; 
He too has a connecting pow'r, and draw 
Man to the centre of the common cause. 
Aiding a dubious and deficient sight 
With a new medium and a purer light. 330 

All truth is precious, if not all divine ; 
And what dilates the pow'rs must needs refine. 
He reads the skies, and, watching ev'ry change, 
Provides the faculties an ample range ; 
And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 335 

A prouder station on the gen'ral scale. 
But Reason still, unless divinely taught, 
Whate'er she learns, learns nothing as she ought ; 
The lamp of' revelation only shows, 
What human wisdom cannot but oppose, 340 

That man, in nature's richest mantle clad, 
And grac'd, with all philosophy can add, 
Though fair without, and luminous within, 
Is still the progeny and heir of sin. 
Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride, 345 
He feels his need of an unerring guide. 
And knows that falling he shall rise no more. 
Unless the pow'r that bade him stand, restore. 
This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own ; 350 

And without this, whatever he discuss. 
Whether the space betweeai the stars and us, 
Whether he measure earth, compute the sea, 
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or split a flea ; 
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill 355 

Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still : 
Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes 
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies. 
Self-knowledge iru^y learn'd, of course implies" 
The rich possession of a nobler prize : SCO 



116 CHARITY 

For self to self; and God to man reveal'd, 

(Two themes to Nature's eye for ever seal'd,) 

Are taught by rays, that fly with equal pace 

From the same centre of enlight'ning grace. 

Here stay thy foot, how copious, and how clear, 365 

Th' o'erflowing well of Charity springs here ! 

Hark ! 'tis the musick of a thousand rills, 

Some through the groves, some down the sloping hills, 

Winding a secret or an open course, 

And all supplied from an eternal source. 370 

The ties of nature do but feebly bind, 

And Commerce partially reclaims mankind ; 

Philosophy, without his heavenly guide. 

May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride. 

But, while his province is the reas'ning part, 375 

Has still a veil of midnight on his heart ; 

'TIS truth divine, exhibited on earth. 

Gives Charity her being and her birth. 

Suppose, (when thought is warm and fancy flows, 
What will not argument sometimes suppose .'') 380 

An isle possess'd by creatures of our kind, 
Endued with reason, yet by nature blind. 
Let supposition lend her aid once more. 
And land some grave optician on the shore : 
He claps his lens, if haply they may see, 385 

Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
But finds, that though his tubes assist the sight. 
They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud 
A sense they know not, to the wond'ring crowd 390 
He talks of light, and the prismatick hues, 
As men of depth in erudition use ; 
But all he gains for his harangue is — Well, — 
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! 

The soul, whose sight all-quick ning grace renews, 
Takes the resemblance of the good she views, 396 

As diamonds stripp'd of their opaque disguise, 
Reflect the noonday glory of the skies. 



CHARITY. 117 

She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend, 

Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end, 400 

In language warm as all that love inspires, 

And in the glow of her intense desires, 

Pants to communicate her noble fires. 

She sees a world stark blind to what employs 

Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys ; 405 

Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call, 

Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all : 

Herself as weak as her support is strong, 

She feels that frailty she denied so long ; 

And, from a knowledge of her own disease, 410 

Learns to compassionate the sick she sees. 

Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence, 

The reign of genume Charity commence. 

Though scorn repay her sympathetick tears. 

She still is kind and still she perseveres ; 415 

The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 

'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream. 

The danger they discern not, they deny ; 

Laugh at their only remedy, and die. 

But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease, 420 

Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. 

Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, 

Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child : 

She makes excuses where she might condemn, 

Revil'd by those that hate her, prays for them ; 425 

Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast. 

The worst suggested, she believes the best ; 

Not soon provok'd, however stung and teaz'd, 

And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeas'd ; 

She rather waves than will dispute her right, 430 

And injur'd, makes forgiveness her delight. 

Such was the portrait an apostle drew, 
The bright original was one he knew ; 
Heav'n held his hand, the likeness must be true. 

When one, that holds communion with the skies, 
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 436 



118 CHARITY. 

And once more mingles with us meaner things, 

'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; 

Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, 

That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 440 

So when a ship, well freighted with the stores 

The Sun matures on India's spicy shores, 

Has dropp'd lier anchor, and her canvass furl'd, 

In some safe haven of our western world, 

'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 445 

The gale informs us, laden with the scent. 

Some seek, when queasy conscience has its qualms, 
To lull the painful malady with alms ; 
But charity not feign'd, intends alone 
Another's good — theirs' centres in their own ; 450 

And too short-liv'd to reach the realms of peace, 
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease. 
Flavia, most tender of her own good name, 
Is rather careless of her sister's fame : 
Her superfluity the poor supplies, 455 

But, if she touch a character, it dies. 
The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice. 
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price : 
No charity but alms ought values she. 
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree. 460 

How many deeds, with which the world has rung, 
From Pride, in league with Ignorance, have sprung ! 
But God o'errules all human follies still. 
And bends the tough materials to his will. 
A conflagration or a wintry flood, 465 

Has left some hundreds without home or food j 
Extravagance and Av'rice shall subscribe, 
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe. 
The brief proclaim'd, it visits ev'ry pew, 
But first the squire's a compliment but due ; 470 

With slow deliberation he unties 
His glitt'ring purse, that envy of all eyes, 
And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm, 
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm ; 



CHARITY. 119 

Till finding, what he might have found before, 475 

A smaller piece amidst the precious store, 

Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb, 

He half exhibits and then drops the sum. 

Gold to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis told 

How the good squire gives never less than gold. 480 

From motives such as his, though not the best, 

Springs in due time supply for the distress'd ; 

Not less effectual than what love bestows, 

Except that office clips it as it goes. 

But lest I seem to sin against a friend, 485 

And wound the grace I mean to recommend, 
(Though vice derided with a just design 
Implies no trespass against love divine,) 
Once more I would adopt the graver style, 
A teacher should be sparing of his smile, 490 

Unless a love of virtue fight the flame. 
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame ; 
He hides behind a magisterial air 
His own offences, and strips others' bare : 
Affbcts indeed a most humane concern, 495 

That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn ; 
The mulish Folly, not to be reclaim'd 
By softer methods, must be made asham'd ; 
But, (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean,) 
Too often rails to gratify his spleen. 500 

Most sat'rists are indeed a publick scourge : 
Their mildest physick is a farrier's purge ; 
Their acid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, 
The milk of their good purpose all to curd. 
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 505 

By lean despair upon an empty purse. 
The wild assassins start into the street, 
Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. 
No skill in swordmanship, however just, 
Can be secure, against a madman's thrust ; 510 

And even Virtue, so unfairly match'd, 
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd 



120 CHARITY. 

When Scandal has new-minted an old lie, 
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 
'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears 615 

Gath'ring around it with erected ears : 
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd ; 
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud ; 
Just as the sapience of an author's brain 
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain — 520 

Strange ? how the frequent interjected dash 
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash ; 
Th' important letters that include the rest, 
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; 
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, 525 

The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. 
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail, 
Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, 
They meet with little pity, no redress ; 530 

Plung'd in the stream, they lodge upon th(i mud, 
Food for the famish 'd rovers of the flood. 
All zeal for a reform, that gives oflfence 
To peace and charity, is mere pretence ; 
A bold remark, but which if well applied, 535 

Would humble many a tow'ring poet's pride. 
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit. 
And had no other play place for his wit ; 
Perhaps enchanted vv^ith the love of fame, 
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame ; 540 
Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue. 
The cause of virtue could not be his view. 
At ev'ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes ; 
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, 
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, 545 

That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; 
So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sight 
On all the wings of holiday delight,) 
Where stands that monument of ancient pow'r, 
Nam'd with emphatick dignity, the Tow'r, 550 



CHARITY. 121 

Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small, 

In starry forms dispos'd upon the wall ; 

We wonder, as wo gazing stand below. 

That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 

But though we praise th' exact designer's skill, 555 

Account them implements of mischief still. 

No works shall find acceptance in that day, 
When all disguises shall be rent away. 
That square not truly with the Scripture plan. 
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. 560 

As he ordains things sordid in their birth 
To be resolv'd into their parent earth ; 
And though the soul shall seek superiour orbs, 

i Whate'er this world produces it absorbs ; 

I So self starts nothing, but what tends apace 565 

i Home to the goal, where it began the race. 

Such as our motive is, our aim must be ; 
If this be servile, that can ne'er be free : 
If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, 

i We glorify that self, not him we ought ; 570 

Such virtues had need prove their own reward, 
The judge of all men owes them no regard. 
True Charity, a plant divinely nurs'd, 
Fed by the love from which it rose at first. 
Thrives against hope, and in the rudest scene, 575 

Storms but enliven its unfading green , 
Exub'rant is the shadow it supplies, 
Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies, 
To look at him who form'd us and redeem'd. 
So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd, 580 

To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 
T' uphold the boundless scenes of his command ; 
To recollect that in a form like ours, 
He brtiis'd beneath his feet th' infernal pow'rs, 
Captivity led captive, rose to claim 585 

The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; 
That, thron'd above all height, he condescends 
To call the few that trust in him his friends ; 
Vol. I. 11 



122 CHARITY. 

That in the heav'n of heav'ns, that space he deems 

Too scanty for th' exertion of his beams, 590 

And shines as if impatient to bestow 

Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 

That sight imparts a never-dying flame, 

Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. 

Like him the soul thus kindled from above 595 

Spreads wide her arms of universal love : 

And, still enlarg'd as she receives the grace, 

Includes creation in her close embrace. 

Behold a christian ! — and without the fires 

The founder of that name alone inspires, 600 

Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet 

To make the shining prodigy complete, 

Whoever boasts that name — behold a cheat ! 

Were love, in these the world's last doting years 

As frequent as the want of it appears, 605 

The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold 

Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold ; 

Relenting forms would lose their pow'r, or cease ; 

And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace : 

Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, 610 

And flow in free communion with the rest. 

The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep, 

Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep ; 

His budget often fill'd, yet always poor. 

Might swing at ease behind his study door, 615 

No longer prey upon our annual rents, 

Or scare the nation with its big contents . 

Disbanded legions freely might depart. 

And slaying man v/ould cease to be an art. 

No learned disputants would take the field, 620 

Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield j 

Both sides decciv'd, if rightly understood, 

Pelting each other for the publick good. 

Did charity prevail, the press woiild prove 

A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love : ^5 



CHARITY. 123 

And I might spare myself the pains to show 
What few can learn, and all suppose they know. 
Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay 
With many a wild, indeed, but flow'ry spray, 
In hopes to gain what else I must have lost, 630 

Th' attention pleasure has so much engross'd. 
But if unhappily deceiv'd I dream, i 

And prove too weak for so divine a theme, 
Let Charity forgive me a mistake. 
That zeal, not vanity, has chanc'd to make, 635 

And spare the poet for his subject's sake. 



CONVERSATION. 



Nam neqiie me tantmn venientis sibiliis austri, 
Nee jiercussa juvarUjluctu tarn lilora, nee quoR 
Saxosas inter decurrant Jiumina miles. 

ViRG.Ecl. 5. 



THOUGH nature weigh our talents, and dispense 

To ev'ry man his modicviui of sense, 

And Conversation in its better part 

May be esteem 'd a gift, and not an art, 

Y^et much depends, as in the tiller's toil, 5 

On culture and the sowing of the soil. 

Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, 

But talking is not alwa5^s to converse ; 

Not more distinct from harmony divine, 

The constant creaking of a country sign. 10 

As Alphabets in ivory employ, 

Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, 

Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee 

Those seeds of science, called his ABC; 

So language in the mouths of the adult, 15 

Witness its insignificant result. 

Too often proves an implement of play, 

A toy to sport with, and pass time away. 

Collect at evening what the day brought forth, 

Compress the sum into its solid worth, 20 



CONVERSATION. 125 

And if it weigh the importance of a fly, 

The scales are false, or algebra a lie, 

Sacred interpreter of human thought, 

How few respect or use thee as they ought ! 

But all shall give account of ev'ry wrong, 25 

Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue ; 

Who prostitute it in the cause of vice. 

Or sell their glory at the market price ; 

Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon. 

The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon. 30 

There is a prurience in the speech of some. 
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb 
His wise forbearance has their end in view, 
They fill their measure, and receive their due. 
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, 35 

Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, 
Would drive them forth from the resort of men, 
And shut up ev'ry satyr in his den. 
O come not ye near iimocence and truth, 
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ; 40 

Infectious as impure, your blighting pow'r 
Taints in its rudiments the promis'd flow'r; 
Its odour perish'd, and its charming hue, 
Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for it smells of you. 
Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage 45 

Of adolescence, or a firmer age, 
Affords a plea allowable or just, 
For making speech the pamperer of lust ; 
But when the breath of age commits the fault, 
'Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault. 50 

So wither'd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene, 
No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; 
The sapless wood, divested of the bark, 
Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. 

Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife — 55 
Some men have surely then a peaceful life : 
Whatever subject occupy discourse. 
The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, 
11* 



126 CONVERSATION. 

Asseveration blustering in your face 

Makes contradiction such a hopeless case : 60 

In ev'ry tale they tell, or false, or true, 

Well knov^n, or such as no man ever knew, 

They fix attention, heedless of your pain, 

With oaths like rivets forc"d into the brain ; 

And e'en vi'hen sober truth prevails throughout, 65 

They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. 

A Persian, humble servant of the sun, 

Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none, 

Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, 

With adjurations ev'ry word impres?, 70 

Suppos'd the man a bishop, or at least, 

God's name so much upon his lips, a priest ! 

Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs. 

And begg'd an int'rest in his frequent pray'rs. 

Go quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd, 75 
Henceforth associate in one common herd ; 
Religion, virtue, reason, common sense, 
Pronounce your human form a false pretence ; 
A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks, 
Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 80 

Ye pow'rs u-ho rule the tongue, if such there are, 
And make colloquial happiness your care, 
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 

The clash of arguments and jar of words, 85 

Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords. 
Decide no question with their tedious length, 
(For opposition gives opinion strength) 
Divert the champions prodigal of breath. 
And put the peaceably dispos'd to death. 90 

thwart me not, Sir Soph, at ev'ry turn, 
Nor carp at ev'ry flaw you may discern ; 
Though syllogisms hang not on ray tongue, 

1 am not surely always in the wrong : 

'Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 95 

A fool must now and then be ri^ht bv chance. 



CONVERSATION. 127 

Not all that freedom of dissent 1 blame ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 

A disputable point, is no man's ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 100 

Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But still remember, if you mean to please, 

To press your point with modesty and ease, 

The mark at which my juster aim I take, 105 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch. 

Knots and impediments make something hitch ; 

Adopt his own, tis equally in vain, 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 110 

The wrangler, rather than accord with you. 

Will judge himself deceiv'd, and prove it too. 

Vociferated logick kills me quite, 

A noisy man is always in the right — 

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 115 

Fix on the wainscoat a distressful stare. 

And when I hope his blunders are all out, 

Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 

Dubious is such a scrupulous good man — 

Yes — you may catch him tripping, if you can. 120 

He Avould not with a peremptory tone, 

Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 

With hesitation admirably slow. 

He humbly hcpes — presumes — it may be so. 

His evidence, if he were call'd by law 125 

To swear to some enormity he saw, 

For want of prominence and just relief. 

Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 

Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 

He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 13ff 

Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not ; 

What he remembers, seems to have forgot : 

His sole opmion, whatsoe'er befall, 

Cent'ring at last in havinn- none at all 



128 CONVERSATION. 

Yet, though he tease and balk your list'ning ear, 135 
He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; 
Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme 
A sceptick in philosophy may seem, 
Reduc'd to practice, his beloved rule 
Would only prove him a consummate fool : 140 

Useless in him alike both brain and speech. 
Fate having plac'd all truth above his reach, 
His ambiguities his total sum, 
He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. 
Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, 145 
The positive pronounce without dismay ; 
Their want of light and intellect supplied 
By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. 
Without the means of knowing right from wrong, 
They always are decisive, clear, and strong; 150 

Where others toil with philosophick force, 
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; 
Fhngs at your head conviction in the lump, 
And gains remote conclusions at a jump : 
Their own defect invisible to them, 155 

Seen in another, they at once condemn ; 
And, though self-idolized in ev'ry case, 
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. 
The cause is plain, and not to be denied. 
The proud are always most provok'd by pride, 160 

Few competitions but engender spite ; 
And tliose the most, where neither has a right. 
The point of honour has been deem'd of use, 
To teach good manners and to curb abuse j 
Admit it true, the consequence is clear, 165 

Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear, 
And, at the bottom barb'rous still and rude, 
We are restrain'd, indeed, but not subdu'd. 
Tlie very remedy, however sure, 

Springs from the mischief it intends to cure, 170 

And savage in its principle appears, 
Tried as it should be, by the fruit it bears 



CONVERSATION. 129 

'Tis hard, indeed if notliiiig will defend 
ManMnd from quarrels but their fatal end ; 
That now and then a hero must decease, 175 

That the surviving world may live in peace. 
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show 
The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; 
That men engage in it compell'd by force, 
And fear, not courage, is its proper source, 180 

The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear 
Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneer. 
At least to trample on our Maker's laws, 
And hazard life for any or no cause, 
To rush into a fix'd eternal state 185 

Out of the very flames of rage and hate, 
Or send another shiv'ring to the bar 
With all the guilt of such unnatural war, 
Whatever Use may urge, or Honour plead, 
On Reason's verdict is a madman's deed. 190 

Am I to set my life upon a throw, 
Because a bear is rude, and surly ? No — 
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man 
Will not affront me ; and no other can. 
Were I empower'd to regulate the lists, 195 

They should encounter with well-loaded fists ! 
A Trojan combat would be somethmg r.ew, 
Let Dares beat Entellus black ana biue ; 
Then each might show, to his admirmg friendS; 
In honourable bumps his rich amends, 200 

And carry in contusions of his skull, 
A satisfactory receipt in full 

A story, in which native humour reigns. 
Is often useful, always entertains : 
A graver fact, enlisted on your side, 205 

May furnish illustration, well applied; 
But sedentary weavers of long tales 
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth. 
To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 210 



130 CONVERSATION. 

And echo conversations, dull and dry, 

Einbellish'd with — He said, and So said I. 

At ev'ry interview their route the same, 

The repetition makes attention lame : 

We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, 215 

And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed 

The path of narrative with care pursue, 

Still making- probability your clew ; 

On all the vestiges of truth attend. 

And let thein guide you to a decent end. 220 

Of all ambitions man may entertain, 

The worst, that can invade a sickly brain, 

Is that, which angles hourly for surprise. 

And baits its hook with prodigies and lies. 

Credulous infancy, or age as weak, 225 

Are fittest auditors for such to seek. 

Who to please others will themselves disgrace, 

Yet please not, but affront you to your face. 

A great retailer of this curious ware 

Having unloaded and made many stare, 230 

Can this be true ? — an arch observer cries. 

Yes, (rather mov'd) I saw it with these eyes ; 

Sir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; 

I could not, had I seen it with my own. 

A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct ; 235 

The language plain, and incidents well link'd, 
Tell not as new what ev"ry body knows, 
And, new or old, still hasten to a close ; 
There, cent'ring in a focus round and neat, 
Let all your rays of information meet. 240 

What neither yields us profit nor delight 
Is like a nurse's lullaby at night ; 
Guy, Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanor, 
Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. 

The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, 245 

Makes half a sentence at a time enough ; 
The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain. 
Then pause, and puff — and speak, and pause again. 



CONVERSATION. 131 

Such often, like the tube they so admire, 

Important triflers ' have more smoke than fire, 250 

Pernicious weed ! whose scent the fair annoys ; 

Unfriendly to society's chief joys, 

Thy worst effect is banishing for hours 

The sex, whose presence civilizes ours : 

Thou art indeed the drug a gp^rd'ner wants, 255 

To poison vermin that infest his plants ; 

But are we so to wit and beauty blind, 

As to despise the glory of our kind, 

And show the softest minds and fairest forms 

As little mercy, as he grubs and worms ? 260 

They dare not wait the riotous abuse. 

Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce. 

When wine has giv n indecent language birth. 

And forc'd the floodgates of licentious mirth ; 

For sea-born Venus her attachment shows 265 

Still to that element from which she rose. 

And with a quiet, which no fumes disturb. 

Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. 

Th' emphatick speaker dearly loves t' oppose. 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 270 

As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, 
Touch'd with a magnet had attracted his. 
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large. 
Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge. 
An extract of his diary — no more, 275 

A tasteless journal of the day before. 
He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, 
Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepp'd home again, 
Resum'd his purpose, had a world of talk 
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. 280 

I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
Adieu, dear Sir, lest you should lose it now. 

I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss-gentleman that's all perfume ; 
The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau — 285 
Who thrusts his nose into a raree show ? 



132 CONVERSATION. 

His odoriferous attempts to please 

Perhaps might prosper v/ ith a swarm of bees ; 

But we that make no honey, though we sting, 

Poets are sometimes apt to maul the thing, 290 

'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, 

What make some sick, and others a la viort. 

An argument of cogence, we may say, 

Why such a one should keep himself away. 

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 295 

Quite as absurd, though not so light as he : 
A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
An oracle within an empty cask, 
The solemn fop ; significant and budge ; 
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge ; 300 

He says but little, and that little said 
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 
His wit invites you by his looks to come. 
But when you knock it never is at home ; 
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, 305 

Some handsome present, as your hopes presage : 
'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 
An absent friend's fidelity and love ; 
But when unpack'd your disappointment groans 
To find it stuff 'd with brickbats, earth, and stones. 310 

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 
In making known how oft they have been sick, 
And give us in recitals of disease 
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees ; 
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed ; 315 

How an emetick or cathartick sped ; 
Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot, 
Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot. 
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill ; 320 

And now — alas, foi unforeseen mishaps ! 
They put on a drjnip nightcap and relapse ; 
They thought ihcy must have died, they were so bad ; 
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 



CONVERSATION. 133 

Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch, 325 

You always do too little or too much ; 
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
You fall at once into a lower key, 
That's worse — the dronepipe of an humblebee. 330 
The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. 
He shakes with cold — ^}'ou stir the fire and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with venison, and lie chooses fish ; 335 

With soal — that's just the sort he would not wish. 
He takes what he at first profess'd to loathe, 
And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 340 

Your hope to please him vain on ev'ry plan, 
Himself should work that wonder, if he can — 
Alas ! his efforts double his distress, 
He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd, 345 

His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. 
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
Of fancied scorn, and unde«erv'd disdain, 
And bear the marks, upon a blushing face. 
Of needless shame, and self-impos'd disgrace. 350 

Our sensibilities are so acute, 
The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
We sometimes think we could a speech produce 
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ; 
But being tried, it dies upon the lip, 355 

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip : 
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns. 
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns, 
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain'd ; 
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd, 360 

By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, 
To fear each other, fearing none beside. 

Vol. I. 12 



134 CONVERSATION. 

The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 

Self-searching with an introverted eye, 

Conceal'd within an unsuspected part, 365 

The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 

For ever aiming at the world's esteem. 

Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 

In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 

Become at length so splendid in our own, 370 

"We dare not risk them into publick view, 

Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 

True modesty is a discerning grace, 

And only blushes in the proper place ; 

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, 375 

Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear ; 

Humility the parent of the first, 

The last by vanity produc'd and nurs'd. 

The circle form'd, we sit in silent state. 

Like figures drawn upon a dial plate ; 380 

Yes, ma'am, and No, ma'am, utter'd softly, show 

Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go ; 

Each individual, sufF'ring a constraint. 

Poetry may, but colours cannot paint ; 

As if in close committee on the sky, 385 

Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 

And finds a changing clime a happy source 

Of wise reflection, and well-tim'd discourse. 

We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, 

Like conservators of the publick health, 390 

Of epidemick throats, if such there are, 

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisicks, and catarrh 

That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, 

Fill'd up at last with interesting news. 

Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, 395 

And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed ; 

But fear to call a more important cause. 

As if 'twere treason against English laws. 

The visit paid, with ecstasy we come. 

As from a seven years' transportation home, 400 



CONVERSATION. 135 

And there resume an unembarrass'd brow, 
Recov'ring what we lost we know not how, 
The faculties, that seem'd reduc'd to nought, 
Expression and the privilege of thought. 

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 405 

I give him over as a desp'rate case. 
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure. 
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; 
And though the fox he follows may be tam'd, 
A mere fox follower never is reclaim'd. 410 

Some farrier should prescribe his proper course, 
Whose only fit companion is his horse ; 
Or if deserving of abetter doom, 
The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 
Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, tho' he stand 415 
To take his honour's orders, cap in hand. 
Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, 
Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. 
If neither horse nor groom affect the squire. 
Where can at last his jockey ship retire .'' 420 

Oh to the club, the scene of savage joys, 
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 
There in the sweet society of those 
Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose. 
Let him improve his talent if he can, 425 

Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. 

Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd. 
Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field. 
Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand 
Giv'n him a soul, and bade him understand ; 430 

The reas'ning pow'r vouchsaf 'd of course inferr'd 
The pow'r to clothe that reason with his word ; 
For all is perfect that God works on earth. 
And he that gives conception, aids the birth. 
If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood, 435 

What uses of his boon the giver would. 
The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, 
Should range where Providence has bless'd the soil ; 



136 CONVERSATION. 

Visiting ev'ry flow'r with labour meet, 

And gath'ring all her treasures sweet by sweet ; 440 

She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, 

And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, 

That good diffus'd may more abundant grow, 

And speech may praise the pow'r that bids it flow. 

Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, 445 

That fills the list'ning lover with delight, 

Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, 

To learn the twitt'ring of a meaner bird ? 

Or make the parrot's mimickry his choice, 

That odious libel on a human voice ? 450 

No — Nature, unsophisticate by man. 

Starts not aside from her Creator's plan j 

The melody, that was at first design'd 

To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind. 

Is note for note deliver'd in our ears, 455 

In the last scene of her six thousand years. 

Yet Fashion, leader of a chatt'ring train. 

Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign, 

Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, 

And would degrade her votary to an ape, 460 

The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong. 

Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; 

There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, 

Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace. 

And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school, 465 

Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 

'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree, 

That none could frame or ratify but she, 

That Heav'n and Hell, and righteousness and sin. 

Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 470 

God and his attributes, (a field of day 

Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,) 

Fruits of his love and wonders of his might, 

Be never nam'd in ears esteem'd polite. 

That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, 475 

Shall stand proscrib'd, a madman, or a knave. 



CONVERSATION. 137 

A close designer not to be believ'd, 

Or, if excus'd that charge, at least deceiv'd. 

Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap, 

Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! 480 

Is it incredible, or can it seem 

A dream to any, except those that dream. 

That man should love his Maker, and that fire, 

Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire : 

Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, 435 

And veil your daring crest that braves the skies y 

That air of insolence affronts your God, 

You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : 

Now, in a posture that becomes you more 

Than that heroick strut assum'd before, 490 

Know your arrears with ev'ry hour accrue 

For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 

The time is short, and there are souls on earth, 

Though future pain may serve for present mirth, 

Acquainted with the woes, that fear or shame, 495 

By Fashion taught, forbade them once to name, 

And havhig felt the pangs you deem a jest, 

Have prov'd them truths too big to be express 'd. 

Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground. 

Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; 500 

Touch'd by that pow'r that you have dar'd to mock, 

That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, 

Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, 

That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. 

It happen'd on a solemn eventide, 505 

Soon after Pie that was our Surety died. 
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclin'd. 
The scene of all those sorrows left behind. 
Sought their own village, busied as they went 
In musings worthy of the great event : 510 

They spake of him they lov'd, of him whose life, 
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, 
"Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, 
A deeo memorial graven on their hearts. 
12* 



J38 CONVERSATION. 

The recollection, like a vein of ore 515 

The farther trac'd, enrich'd them still the more , 

They thought him, and they justly thought him, one 

Sent to do more than he appear'd t' have done ; 

T' exalt a people, and to place them high 

Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. 520 

Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, 

A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, 

And ask'd them, with a kind engaging air, 

What their affliction was, and begg'd a share. 

Inform 'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, 525 

And truth and wisdom gracing all he said, 

Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well 

The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, 

That reaching home, the night, they said, is near, 

We must not now be parted, sojourn here. 530 

The new acquaintance soon became a guest. 

And, made so welcome at their simple feast, 

He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, 

And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord !" 

Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say — 535 

Did they not burn within us by the way ? 

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves 
Man to maintain, and such as God approves ; 
Their view, indeed were indistinct and dim, 
But yet successful being aim'd at him. 540 

Christ and his character their only scope. 
Their object, and their subject, and their hope. 
They felt what it became them much to feel, 
And wanting him to loose the sacred seal, 
Found him as prompt, as their desire was true, 545 
To spread the new-born glories in their view. 
Well — what are ages and the lapse of time 
Match'd against truths as lasting as sublime .'' 
Can length of years on God himself exact .-' 
Or make that fiction, which was once a fact i* 550 

No — marble and recording brass decay. 
And like the graver's mem'ry pass away ; 



1 1 



CONVERSATION. 139 

The works of man inherit, as is just, 

Their author's fi-ailty, and return to dust ; 

But truth divine for ever stands secure, 555 

Its head is guarded as its base is sure ; 

Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, 

The pillar of th' eternal plan appears, 

The raving storm and dashing waves defies, 

Built by that architect who built the skies. 5G0 

Hearts may be found that harbour, at this hour, 

That love of Christ and all its quick'ning pow'r ; 

And hps, unstain'd by folly or by strife. 

Whose wisdom drawn from the deep well of life, 

Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows 565 

A Jordan for th' ablution of our woes. 

O days of Heav'n, and nights of equal praise, 

Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, 

When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet, 

Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, 570 

Discourse, as if releas'd and safe at home, 

Of dangers pass'd, and wonders yet to come, 

And spread the sacred treasures of the breast 

Upon the lap of covenanted rest. 

What, always dreaming over heavenly things, 575 
Like angel heads in stone with pigeon wings ' 
Canting and whining out all day the word. 
And half the night ? fanatick and absurd ! 
Mine be the friend less frequent in his pray'rs. 
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, 580 

Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, 
And chase the splenetick dull hours away ; 
Content on earth in earthly things to shine, 
Who waits for Heav'n ere he becomes divine. 
Leaves saints t' enjoy those altitudes they teach, 585 
And plucks the fruit plac'd more within his reach. 

Well spoken, Advocate of sin and shame. 
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. 
Is sparklin.g wit the world's exclusive right, 
The fix'd fee simple of the vain and light "^ 690 



140 CONVERSATION. 

Can hopes of Heav'n, bright prospects of an hour. 

That come to waft us out of sorrow's pow'r, 

Obscure or quench a faculty that finds 

Its happiest soil in the serenest minds ? 

Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, 595 

And brings the trifler under rig'rous sway, 

But gives it usefulness unknown before, 

And, purifying, makes it shine the more. 

A Christian's wit is inoffensive light, 

A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 600 

Vig'rous in age as in the flush of youth, 

'Tis always active on the side of truth: 

Temp'rance and peace insure its healthful state, 

And make it brightest at its latest date. 

Oh I have seen, (nor hope perhaps in vain, 605 

Ere life go down, to see such sights again,) 

A vet'ran warriour in the Christian field. 

Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 

Grave, without dulness, learned without pride, 

Exact, yet not precise ; though meek, keen-ey'd ; 610 

A man that would have foil'd at their own play 

A dozen would-be's of the modern day ; 

Who, when occasion justified its use. 

Had wit as bright as ready to produce ; 

Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 615 

Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page. 

His rich materials, and regale your ear 

With strains it was a privilege to hear : 

Yet above all, his luxury supreme, 

And his chief glory, was the Gospel theme ; 620 

There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 

His happy eloquence seem'd there at home. 

Ambitious not to shine or to excel. 

But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. 

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 625 

When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, 
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense. 
And wiser men's ability pretence. 



CONVERSATION. 141 

Though time still wear us, and we must grow old, 
Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, 630 

Their fragrant memory Avill outlast their tomb, 
Embalm'd for ever in its own perfume. 
And to say truth, though in its early prime, 
And when unstain'd with an}'- grosser crime, 
Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, 635 

That in the vaUey of decline are lost, 
And Virtue with peculiar charms appears, 
Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years ; 
Yet age, by long experience well inform'd, 
Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, 640 
That fire abated, which impels rash youth, 
Proud of his speed to overshoot the truth. 
As time improves the grape's authentick juice, 
Mejlows and makes the speech more fit for use, 
And claims a rev'rence in its short'ning day, 645 

That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay. 
The fruits of age less fair, are yet more sound. 
Than those a brighter season pours around ; 
And like the stores autumnal suns mature, 
Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure. 650 

What is fanatick phrenzy, scorn'd so much, 
And dreaded more than a contagious touch .'' 
I grant it dang'rous, and approve your fear. 
That fire is catching if yovi draw too near ; 
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 655 

And give true piety that odious name. 
To tremble, (as the creature of an hour 
Ought at the view of an almighty pow'r,) 
Before his presence, at whose awful throne 
All tremble in all worlds, except our own, 660 

To supplicate his mercy, love his ways. 
And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, 
Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice. 
And free from bias, must approve the choice, 
Convicts a man fanatick in th' extreme, 665 

And wild as madness in the world's esteem. 



142 CONVERSATION. 

But that disease, when soberly defin'd, 

Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind : 

It views the truth with a distorted eye, 

And either warps or lays it useless by ', 670 

'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 

Its sordid nourishment from man's applause , 

And while at heart sin um-ehnquish'd lies, 

Presumes itself chief fav'rite of the skies. 

'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds 675 

In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, 

Shines in the dark, but usher 'd into day, 

The stench remains, the lustre dies away. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 
Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd : 680 

And, farewell else all hope of pure delight. 
Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright. 
Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name. 
Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame : 
A dark confederacy against the laws 685 

Of virtue and religion's glorious cause : 
They build each other up with dreadful skUI, 
As bastions set point blank against God's will ; 
Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, 
Deeply resolv'd to shut a Saviour out ; 690 

Call legions up from Hell to back the deed. 
And, curs'd with conquest, finally succeed. 
But souls that carry on a bless'd exchange 
Of joys they meet with in their heav'nly range, 
And with a fearless confidence make known 695 

The sorrows sympathy esteems its o'wn. 
Daily derive increasing light and force 
From such communion in their pleasant course, 
Feel less the journey's roughness ana its length, 
Meet their opposers with united strength, 700 

And, one in heart, in int'rest, and design, 
Gird up each other to the race divine. 

But Conversation, choose what theme we may, 
And chiefly when religion leads the way. 



CONVERSATION. 143 

Should flow like waters after summer show'rs, 705 
Not as if rais'd by mere mechanick pow'rs. 
The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, 
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, 
When all his glowing language issu'd forth 
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, 710 
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, 
Sad as it is, his xmdissembling heart. 
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, 
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel. 
The song of Sion is a tasteless thing, 715 

Unless, when rising on a joyful wing. 
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, 
And give the strain the compass it demands. 
Strange tidings these to tell a world who treat 
I All but their own experience as deceit ! 720 

I Will they believe, though credulous enough 

I To swallow much upon much weaker proof, 

j That there are bless'd inhabitants on earth, 

I Partakers of a new ethereal birth, 

I Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrang'd 725 

I From things terrestrial and divinely chang'd, 

I Their very language of a kind that speaks 

The soul's sure int'rest in the good she seeks } 
I Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt 

As Tully with philosophy once dealt, 730 

And in the silent watches of the night. 

And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, 

The social walk, or solitary ride. 

Keep still the dear companion at their side ? 

No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, 735 

God's work may serve an ape upon a stage 

With such a jest, as fill'd with hellish glee 

Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; 

But veneration or respect finds none, 

Save from the subject of that work alone. 740 

The world grown old. her deep discernment shows, 

Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, 



144 CONVERSATION. 

Peruses closely the true Christian's face, I 

And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; 

Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, 745 

And finds hypocrisy close lurking there. 

And serving God herself through mere constraint, 

Concludes his unfeign'd love of bim a feint. 

And yet God knows, look human nature through, 

(And in due time the world shall know it too,) 750 

That since the flow'rs of Eden felt the blast. 

That after man's defection laid all waste, 

Sincerity tow'rds the heart-searching God 

Has made the new-born creature her abode. 

Nor shall be found in unregen'rate souls, 755 

Till the last fire burn all between the polee. 

Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride, 

Weak and imperfect in all grace beside ; 

He knows that God demands his heart entire, 

And gives him all his just demands require. 760 

Without it his pretensions were as vain, 

As, having it, he deems the world's disdain j 

That great defect would cost him not alone 

Man's favourable judgment, but his own ; 

His birthright shaken, and no longer clear 765 

Than while liis conduct proves his heart sincere. 

Retort the charge, and let the world be told 

She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 

That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead 

A cold misgiving, and a killing dread : 770 

That while in health the ground of her support 

Is madly to forget that life is short ; 

That sick she trembles, knowing she must die. 

Pier hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 

That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes. 

She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives ; 776 

Her utmost reach historical assent, ! ! 

The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant ; 

That truth itself is in her head as dull 

And \iseless as a candle in a skull ; 780 



CONVERSATION. 145 

And all her love of God a groundless claim, 

A trick upon the canvass, painted flame. 

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face. 

And all her censures of the work of grace, 

Are insincere, meant only to conceal 785 

A dread she would not, yet is forc'd to feel ; 

That in her heart the Christian she reveres, 

And while she seems to scorn him, only fears. 

A poet does not work by square or line, 
As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; 790 

At least we moderns, our attention less, 
Beyond the example of our sires digress, 
And claim a right to scamper and run wide, 
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
The world and I fortuitously met ; 795 

1 ow'd a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
She did me wrong, I recompens'd the deed. 
And having struck the balance, now proceed. 
Perhaps, however, as some years have pass'd 
Since she and I convers'd together last, 800 

And I have liv'd recluse in rural shades. 
Which seldom a distinct report pervades. 
Great changes and new manners have occurr'd, 
And bless 'd reforms, that I have never heard, 
And she may now be as discreet and wise 805 

As once absurd in all discerning eyes. 
Sobriety, perhaps, may now be found 
Where once intoxication press'd the ground : 
The subtle and injurious may be just. 
And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust ; 810 
Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd ; 
Charity may relax the miser's fist ; 
The gamester may have cast his cards away, 
Forgot to curse and only kneel to pray. 
It has indeed been told me, (with what weight, 815 
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state,) 
That fables old, that seem'd for ever mute, 
Reviv'd are hast'ning into fresh repute, 

Vol. I. 13 



146 CONVERSATION. 

And gods and goddesses, discarded long 

Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song, 820 
Are bringing into vogue their heathen train, 
And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ; 
That certain feasts are instituted now, 

Where Venus hears the lovers' tender vow j j | 

That all Olympus through the country roves, 825 ■ j 

To consecrate our few remaining groves ; ; j 

And Echo learns politely to repeat j 

The praise of names for ages obsolete ; | 

That having prov'd the weakness, it should seem j 

Of revelation's ineffectual beam, 830 j 

To bring the passions under sober sway, '■ 

And give the moral springs their proper play, i 

They mean to try what may at last be done, | 

By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, i 

And whether Roman rites may not produce 835 ' 

The virtues of old Rome for English use. \ 

May such success attend the pious plan, i 

May Mercury once more embellish man, ! 

Grace him again with long forgotten arts, i 

Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts, 840 

Make him athletick as in days of old, ] 

Learn'd at the bar, in the pelcestra bold, j 

Divest the rougher sex of female airs, ! 

And teach the softer not to ccpy theirs : i 

The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught [ 

Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 846 

'Tis time, however, if the case stand thus, \ 

For us plain folks, and all who side with us, i 

To build our altar, confident and bold, ' 

And say as stern Elijah said of old, 850 - 

The strife now stands upon a fair award, ' 
If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord . 

If he be silent, faith is all a whim, | 
Then Baal is the God, and worship him. 

Digression is so much in modern use, 855 
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, 



CONVERSATION. 147 

Some never seem so wide of their intent, 

As when returning to the theme they meant ; 

As mendicants, whose business is to roam, 

Make every ^^arish but tlieir own their home. 860 

Though sueli continual zigzags in a book, 

Sucli drunken reehngs liave an awkward look, 

And I had rather creep to what is true, 

Than rove and stagger with no mark in view ; 

Yet to consult a little scem'd no crime, 865 

The freakish humour of the present time : 

But now to gather up what seems dispers'd^ 

And touch the subject I design'd at first. 

May prove, though much beside the rules of art, 

Best for the publick, and my wisest part. 870 

And first, let no man charge me, that I mean 

To clothe in sable ev'ry social scene. 

And give good company a face severe. 

As if they met around a father's bier ; 

For tell some men, that pleasure ail their bent, 875 

And laughter all their work, is life mispent ; 

Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, 

Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. 

To find the medium asks some share of wit, 

And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. 880 

But though life's valley be a vale of tears, 

A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, 

Whose glory with a light that never fades. 

Shoots between scatter'd rocks and op'ning shades, 

And while it shows the land the soul desires, 885 

The language of the land she seeks inspires. 

Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure 

Of all that was absurd, profane, impure ; 

Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 

Pursues the course that truth and nature teach ; 890 

No longer labours merel}^ to produce 

The pomp of sound or tinkle without use ; 

Where'er it winds, the salutary stream. 

Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, 



148 CONVERSATION. 

While all the happy man possess'd before, 896 

The gift of nature or the classick store, 

Is made subservient to the grand design 

For which Heav'n form'd the faculty diviijp. 

So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, 

Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, 900 

With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes, 

And grins with wonder at the jar he makes ; 

But let the wise and well-instructed hand 

Once take the shell beneath his just command, 

In gentle sounds it seem'd as it complain'd 905 

Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd. 

Till tun'd at length to some immortal song, 

It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise alonjf. 



RETIREMENT. 



-studiis f^orens ignobUis oti. 

ViRG. GeoriC Lib. 4. 



HACKNEY'D in business, wearied at that oar 
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more 
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, 
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; 
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade, 5 

Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, 
Wliere, all his long anxieties forgot 
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, 
Or recollected only to gild o'er, 

And add a smile to what was sweet before, 10 

He may possess the joys he thinks he sees. 
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease, 
Improve the remnant of his wasted span. 
And, having liv'd a triflcr, die a man. 
Thus Conscience pleads her cause v/ithin the breast, 
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, 16 
And calls a creature form'd for God alone. 
For Heav'n's high purposes, and not his own, 
Calls him a\vay from selfish ends and aims, 
From what debilitates and what inflames, 20 

From cities humming with a restless crowd, 
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud, 
13* 



150 RETIREMENT. 

Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, 

The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain. 

Where works of man are cluster'd close around, 25 

And works of God are hardly to be fovmd, 

To regions where in spite of sin and wo, 

Traces of Eden are still seen below. 

Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, 

R,emind him of his Maker's power and love. 30 

'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day, 

In the last scene of such a senseless play, 

True wisdom will attend his feeble call, 

And grace his action ere the curtain fall. 

Souls that have long despis'd their heavenly birth, 35 

Tlieir wishes all impregnated with earth. 

For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care 

In catching smoke and feeding upon air, 

Conversant only with the ways of men, 

Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 40 

Invet'rate habits, choke th' unfruitful heart, 

Their fibres penetrate its tend'rest part. 

And draining its nutritious pow'rs to feed 

Their noxious growth, starve ev'ry better seed. 

Happy, if full of days — but happier far, 45 

If, ere we yet discern life's evening star. 
Sick of the service of a world that feeds 
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, 
We can escape from custom's idiot sway, 
To serve the Sov'reign we were born t' obey. 50 

Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd, 
(Infinite skill.) in all that he has made ! 
To trace in nature's most minute design 
The signature and stamp of pow'r divine, 
Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 55 

Where unassisted sight no beauty sees. 
The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 
Within the small dimensions of a point. 
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, 
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, 60 



RETIREMENT. 151 

Th' invisible in things scaorce seen reveal'd, 

To whom an atom is an ample field ; 

To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 

These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, 

New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share , 65 

Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 

Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and 

size, 
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; 
With helmet heads, and dragon scales adorn'd, 
The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, 70 

Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth : 
Then with a glance of fancy to survey , 
Far as the faculty can stretch away. 
Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command 75 

From urns that never fail, through ev'ry land ; 
This like a deluge with impetuous force. 
Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
Seas, on which ev'ry nation spreads her sails ; 80 

The sun, a Vv^orld whence other worlds drink light, 
The crescent moon, the diadem of night ; 
Stars countless, each in his appointed place 
Fast anchor 'd in the deep abyss of space — 
At such a sight to catch the post's flame, 85 

And with a rapture like his own exclaim. 
These are thy glorious works, thou source of good, 
How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care, 
This universal frame, thus wondrous fair : 90 

Thy pow'r divine, and bounty beyond thought, 
Ador'd and prais'd in all that thou hast wrought 
Absorb'd in that immensity I see, 
I shrink abas'd, and yet aspire to thee ; 
Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day, 95 

Thy words more clearly than thy works display 



152 RETIREMENT 

That, while thy truths my grosser thouo-hts refine, 
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine. 

Oh blest proficiency ! supassing all 
That men erroneously their glorj'- call, 100 

The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
The bar, the senate, or the tented field. 
Compar'd with tliis sublimest life below, 
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show '' 
Thus studied, us'd, and consecrated thus, 105 

On earth, what is, seems form'd indeed for us . 
Not as the plaything of a froward child. 
Fretful unless diverted and beguil'd, 
Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires 
Of pride, ambition, or impure desires ; 110 

But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
From mighty means to more important ends, 
Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
Mounts from inferiour beings up to God, 
And sees, by no fallacious light or dim, 115 

Earth made for man, and man himself for him. 

Not that I mean t' approve, or would enforce, 
A superstitious and monastick course : 
Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
And fills the world of traffick, and the shades, 120 

And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes, 
Or scorn'd where business never intervenes. 
But 'tis not easy v/ith a mind like ours, 
Conscious of weakness in its noblest pow'rs. 
And in a world where other ills apart, 125 

The roving eye misleads the careless heart, 
To limit Thought, by nature prone to stray 
Wherever freakish Fancy points the way ; 
To bid the pleadings of self-love be still, 
Resign our own, and seek our Maker's v/ill ; 130 

To spread the page of Scripture, and compare 
Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
To measure all that passes in the breast. 
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test 



RETIREMENT. 153 

To dive into the secret deeps within, 135 

To spare no passion and no fav'rite sin, 
And searcn the themes important above all, 
Ourselves and our recov'ry from our fall. 
But leisure, silence, and a mind releas'd 
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased, 
How to secure, in some propitious hour, 141 

The point of int'rest or the post of pow'r, 
A soul serene, and equally retir'd, 
From objects too much dreaded or desir'd, 
Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute, 145 

At least are friendly to the great pursuit, 

Op'ning the map of God's extensive plan, 
We find a little isle, tliis life of man ; 
Eternity's unknown expanse appears 
Circling around and limiting his years. 150 

The busy race examme and explore 
Each creek and cavern of the dang 'reus shore, 
With care collect what in their eyes excels, 
Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells ; 
Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great, 155 
And happiest he that groans heneath his weight : 
The waves o'ertake them in their serious play, 
And ev'ry hour sweep multitudes away ; 
They shrink and sink, survivors start and weep, 
Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. 160 

A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes 
Ask wealth of Heav'n, and gain a real prize — 
Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above, 
Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and love, 
Scorn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wait 165 
A kind release from their imperfect state, 
And unregretted are soon snatch'd away 
From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 

Now these alone prefer a life recluse. 
Who seek retirement for its proper use ; 170 

The love of change, that lives in ev'ry breast, 
Genius and temper, and desire of rest, 



154 RETIREMENT. 

Discordant motives in one centre meet, 

And each inclines its votary to retreat. 

Some minds by nature are averse to noise, 175 

And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 

The lure of av'rice, or the pompous prize, 

That courts display before ambitious eyes , 

The fruits that hang on pleasure's flow'ry stem, 

Whate'er enchants them, are no snares to them. 180 

To them the deep recess of dusky groves, 

Or forest, where the deer securely roves, 

The fall of waters, and the song of birds, 

And hills that echo to the distant herds, 

Are luxuries excelling all the glare 185 

The world can boast, and her chief fav 'rites share. 

With eager step and carelessly array'd, 

For such a cause the poet seeks the shade j 

From all he sees he catches new delight, 

Pleas'd Fancy claps her pinions at the sight j 190 

The rising or the setting orb of day, 

The clouds that flit, or slowly float away. 

Nature in all the various shapes she wears, 

Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs, 

The snowy robe her wintry state assumes, 195 

Her summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes, 

All, all alike transport the glowing bard, 

Success in rhyme his glory and reward. 

O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose 

His bright perfections, at whose word they rose, 200 

Next to that pow'r who form'd thee and sustains, 

Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. 

Still as I touch the lyre, do thou expand | j 

Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, j I 

That I may catch a fire but rarely known, 205 j ! 

Give useful light, though I should miss renown j ' i 

And poring on thy page, whose ev'ry line 

Bears proof of an intelligence divine. 

May feel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, 

That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. 210 



RETIREMENT. 155 

Wo to the man, whose wit disclaims its use, 
Glitt'ring in vain, or only to seduce, 
Who studies nature with a wanton eye, 
A.dmires the work, but slips the lesson by ; 
His hours of leisure and recess employs 215 

[n drawing pictures of forbidden joys, 
Retires to blazon his own worthless name, 
Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. 

The lover, too, shuns business and alarms. 
Tender idolater of absent charms. 220 

Saints offer nothing in their warmest pray'rs. 
That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
'Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time. 
And ev'ry thought that wanders is a crime. 
In sighs he worships his supremely fair, 225 

And weeps a sad libation in despair ; 
Adores a creature, and, devout in vain. 
Wins in return an answer of disdain. 
As woodbine weds the plant within her reach. 
Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or glossy beech. 
In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays 231 

Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays, 
But does a mischief while she lends a grace, 
Strait'ning its growth by such a strict embrace ; 
So love, that clings around the noblest minds, 235 

Forbids th' advancement of the soul he binds ; 
The suitor's air, indeed, he soon improves. 
And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
Refines his speech, and fashions his address • 240 

But farewell promises of happier fruits ; 
Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits ; 
Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break. 
His only bliss is sorrow for her sake , 
Who will may pant for glory and excel, 245 

Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell ! 
Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name 
May least offend against so pure a flame, 



156 RETIREMENT 

Though sage advice of friends the most sincere 

Sounds harshly in so dehcate an ear, 250 

And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild, 

Can least brook management, however mild, 

Yet let a poet, (poetry disarms 

The fiercest animals with magick charms,) 

Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, 255 

And woo and win thee to thy proper good. 

Pastoral images and still retreats, 

Umbrageous walks and solitary seats. 

Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams, 

Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day dreams, 260 

Are all enchantments in a case like thine. 

Conspire against thy peace with one design ; 

Sooth thee to make thee but a surer prey. 

And feed the fire that wastes thy pow'rs away : 

Up — God has form'd thee with a wiser view, 265 

Not to be led m chains, but to subdue ; 

Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first 

Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst. 

Woman, indeed, a gift he would bestow 

Wlien he design'd a Paradise below, 270 

The richest earthly boon his hands afford. 

Deserves to be belov'd, but not ador'd. 

Post away swiftly to more active scenes, 

Collect the scatter'd truths that study gleans, 

Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, 275 

No lono-er give an image all thine heart ; 

Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 

'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. 

Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 280 

Gives melancholy up to Nature's care. 
And send the patient into purer air. 
Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove 
Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move : 
Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow, 285 

Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, 



RETIREMENT. 157 

Interpret to the marking eye distress, 
Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue, 
Could argue once, could jest or join tlie song, 290 

Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounc'd alike its office, and its sport, 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, 205 

And like a summer brook are pass'd away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse. 
Till she resemble faintly what she views, 
Till Sympathy contract a kindred pain, 
Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. 300 
This, of all maladies that man infest, 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least : 
Job felt it when hs groan'd beneath the rod 
And the barb'd arrows of a frowning God ; 
And such emollients as his friends could spare, 305 
Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. 
Bless'd, rather curs'd, with hearts that never feel, 
Kept snug in caskets of closc-hammer'd steel. 
With mouths made only to grin wide and eat, 
And minds that deem derided pain a treat, 310 

With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire. 
And wit that puppet-prompters might inspire, 
Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke, 
On pangs enforc'd with God's severest stroke. 
But with a soul, that ever felt the sting 315 

Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing : 
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise 
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise : 
He that has not usurp'd the name of man. 
Does all, and deems too little all, he can, 320 

T' assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, 
A.nd stanch the bleedings of a broken heart. 
'Tis not as heads that never ache suppose, 
Forgery of fancy, and a di'cam of woes ; 
Vol. I. 14 



158 RETIREMENT. 

Man is a Iiarpj whose chords elude the sight, 325 

Each yielding harmony dispos'd ariglit ; 

The screws revers'd, (a task which if he please 

God in a moment executes with ease,) 

Ten thousand thousand springs at once go loose, 

Lost, till he tune tliem, all their power and use. 330 

Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 

As ever recompens'd the peasant's care. 

Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, 

Nor view of waters turning busy mills. 

Parks in which Art preceptress Nature weds, 335 

Nor gardens interspersed with fiow'ry beds. 

Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, 

And waft it to the mourner as he roves, 

Can call up life into his faded eye, 

That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 340 

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels. 

No cure for such, till God, who makes tliem, heals. 

And thou, sad sufT'rer under nameless ill, 

That yields not to the touch of human skill. 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 345 

A Father's frown, and kiss his chast'ning hand. 

To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon. 

The purple ev'ning and resplendent moon, 

The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night, 

Seem drops descending in a show'r of light, 350 

Shine not, or undesir'd and hated shine, 

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine ; 

Yet seek him, in his favour life is found. 

All bliss beside a shadow or a sound ; 

Then Heav'n eclips'd so long, and this dull eartji, 355 

Shall seem to start into a second birth ; 

Nature, assuming a more lovely face. 

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 

Shall be despis'd and overlook'd no more. 

Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, 360 

Impart to things inanimate a voice. 

And bids her mountains and Iicr liills rejoice ; 



RETIREMENT. 159 

The sound shall run along the winding vales, 
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Ye groves, (the statesman at his desk exclaims, 365 
Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,) 
My patrimonial treasure and my pride, 
Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide, 
Receive me languishing for that repose, 
The servant of the publick never knows. 370 

Ye saw me once, (ah those regretted days, 
When boyish innocence was all my praise !) 
Hour after hour delightfully allot 
To studies then familiar, since forgot. 
And cultivate a taste for ancient song, 375 

Catching its ardour as I mus'd along ; 
Nor seldom, as propitious Heav'n might send, 
What once I valu'd and could boast, a friend, 
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
His undissembling virtue to my breast ; 380 

Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then, 
Nor guiltless of corrupting other men. 
But vers'd in arts, that while they seem to stay 
A falling empire, hasten its decay, j ' 

To the fair haven of my native home, 385 j 

The wreck of what I was, fatigued I come ; 
For once I can approve the patriot's voice, 
And make the course he recommends my choice : 
We meet at lasi in one sincere desire. 
His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 390 

Tis done — he steps into the welcome chaise, 
Lolls at his ease behind four handsome baysj 
That whirl away from business and debate 
The disencumber'd Atlas of the state. 
Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn 395 
First shakes the glitt'ring drops from ev'ry thorn, 
(Infolds his flock, then under bank or bush 
Sits linking cherry stones, or platting rush, 
How fair is freedom ! — he was always free * 
To carve his rustick name upon a tree, 400 



160 RETIREMENT 

To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook 

To draw the incautious minnow from the brook, 

Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view, 

His flock the chief concern he ever knew ; 

She shines but httle in his heedless eyes, 405 

The good we never miss we rarely prize : 

But ask the noble drudge in state affairs, 

Escap'd from office and its constant cares, 

What charms he sees in Freedom's smile express'd. 

In Freedom lost so long, now repossessed ; 410 

The tongue, whose strains were cogent as commands, 

Rever'd at home, and felt in foreign lands, 

Shall own itself a stamm'rer in that cause, 

Or plead its silence as its best applause. 

He knows, indeed, that, whether drcss'd or rude, 415 

Wild without art, or artfully subdu'd, 

Nature in ev'ry form inspires delight. 

But never mark'd her with so just a sight. 

Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store, 

With woodbine, and wild roses mantled o'er, 420 

Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream, that 

spreads 
Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads, 
Downs, that almost escape th' inquiring eye, 
That melt and fade into the distant sky, 
Beauties he latel)^ slighted as he pass'd, 425 

Seem all created since he travelld last. 
Master of all th' enjoyments he design'd. 
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind. 
What early philosophick hours he keeps, 
How regular his meals, liow sound he sleeps ! 430 

Not sounder he, that on the mainmast head. 
While morning kindles with a windy red, 
Begms a long look-out for distant land. 
Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand. 
Then, swift descending with a seaman's haste, 435 

Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast. 



RETIREMENT. 161 

He chooses company, but not the squire's, 
Whoso wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; 
Nor yet tlie parson's, who would gladly come, 
Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home ; 440 
Nor can he much affect the neighb'ring peer, 
Whoso toe of emulation treads too near ; 
But wisely seeks a more convenient friend 
With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend 
A man, whom marks of condescending grace 445 

Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place , 
Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, 
Speaks with reserve, and listens v/ith applause; 
Some plain mechanick, who, without pretence 
To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 450 

On whom he rests well pleas'd his Vv'eary pow'rs, 
And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 
The tide of life, swift always in its course, 
May run in cities with a brisker force, 
But no where with a current so serene, 455 

Or half so clear, as in the rural scene. 
Yet how fallacious is all oartiily bliss. 
What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss 
Some pleasures live a month, and some a year. 
But short the date of all we gather here ; 460 

No happiness is felt, except the true. 
That does not charm the inore for being new. 
This observation, as it chanc'd, not made, 
Or, if the thought occurr'd not duly weigh'd, 
He sighs — for, after all, by slow degrees 465 

The spot he lov'd has lost the pow'r to please 
To cross his ambling pony day by day, 
Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 
The prospect, such as might enchant despair, 
He views it not, or sees no beauty there ; 470 

With aching heart, and discontented looks. 
Returns at noon to billiards or to books, 
But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, 
A secret thirst of his renounc'd employs. 
11 - 



162 RETIREMENT. 

He chides the tardiness of ev'ry post, 475 

Pants to be told of battles won or lost, | 

Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 

"Tis criminal to leave a sinking state, ! 

Flies to the levee, and, receiv'd with grace. 

Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. 480 

Suburban villas, highway side retreats. 
That dread th' encroachment of our growing streets, 
Tight boxes neatly sash'd, and in a blaze 
With all a July sun"s collected rays. 
Delight the citizen, who, gasping there, 485 

Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. 
O sweet retirement, who v/ould balk the thought 
That could afford retirement, or could not ? 
'Tis such an easy v/alk, so smooth and straight, 
The second milestone fronts the garden gate ; 490 

A step if fair, and if a show'r approach. 
You find safe shelter in the next stage coach. 
There prison'd in a parlour snug and small. 
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall. 
The man of business and his friends compress'd, 495 
Forget their labours, and yet find no rest ; 
But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen 
From ev'ry window, and the fields are green : 
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door. 
And what could a remoter scene show more .'' 500 

A sense of elegance we rarely find 
The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, 
And ignorance of better things makes man, 
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can ; 
And he that deems his leisure well bestow'd 505 

In contemplation of a turnpike road, 
Is occupied as v/ell, employs his hours 
As wisely, and as much improves his pow'rs, 
As he that slumbers in pavilions grac'd 
With all the charms of an accompiish'd taste. 510 

Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies; and hence 
The unpitied victim of ill-judg'd expense. 



RETIREMENT. 163 

From all his wearisome engagements freed, 
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. 

Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, 515 
Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge wells, 
When health requir'd it would consent to roam. 
Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home. 
But now aUke, gay widow, virgin, wife. 
Ingenious to diversify dull life, 520 

In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys. 
Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys, 
And all, impatient of dry land, agree 
With one consent to rush into the sea — 
Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad, 525 

Much of the pow'r and majesty of God. 
He sv/athcs about the swelling of the deep, 
That shines and rests as infants smile and sleep ; 
Vast as it is, it ansv/ers as it flows 

The breathings of the lightest air that blows ; 530 

Curling and whit'ning over all the waste. 
The rising waves obey th' increasing blast, 
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars, 
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores. 
Till he that rides the wnirlwind, checks the rein, 535 
Then all the world of waters sleep again. — 
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, 
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads, 
Vot'ries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells, 
Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, 540 

O grant a poet leave to recommend, 
(A poet fond of Nature, and your friend,) 
Her slighted works to your admiring view ; 
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. 
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride, 545 
With some unraeaning coxcomb at 3'^our side, 
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains, 
To waste unheard the rnusick of his strains. 
And, deaf to all tli' impertinence of tongue, 
That, v/hile it courts, affronts and does you wrong, 550 



J 64 RETIREMENT. 

Marlt well the finisli'd plan without a fault, 

The seas globose and huge, tli' o'erarchmg vault, 

Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd, 

In gath'ring plenty yet to be enjoy'd. 

Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 555 

Of God beneficent in all his v/ays ; 

Grac'd with such wisdom, how would beauty shine ? 

Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. 

Anticipated rents^ and bills unpaid. 
Force many a shining youth into the shade, 560 

Not to redeem his time, but his estate. 
And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. 
There, hid in loth'd obscurity, remov'd 
From pleasures left, but never more belov'd, 
He just endures, and with a sickly spleen 565 

Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene ; 
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; 
Streams tinkle sweetly in poetick chime ; 
The v/arblings of the blackbird, clear and strong, 
Are musical enough in Thomson's song ; 570 

And Cobham's groves, and V/indsor's green retreats. 
When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets ; 
He likes the country, but in truth must own, 
Most likes it, w^hen he studies it in town. 

Poor Jack — no matter who — for v/hen I blame, 575 
I pity, and must therefore sink the name, 
Liv'd in his saddle, lov'd the chace, the course, 
And alwa3's, ere he mounted, kiss'd Jiis horse. 
The estate his sires had own'd in ancient years, 
Was quickly distanc'd, match'd against a peer's. 580 
Jack vanish'd, was regretted and forgot ; 
'Tis wild good nature's never-failing lot. 
At length, when all had long suppos'd him dead, 
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead. 
My lord, alighting at his usual place, 585 

The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. 
Jack knew his friend, but hop"d in that disguise 
Flu might escape the most observing eyes; 



RETIREMENT. 165 

And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, 
Curried his nag, and look'd another way. 590 

Convinc'd at last, upon a nearer view, 
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy, 
He press'd him much to quit his base employ ; 
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his liand, 595 
Influence and pow'r, were all at his command : 
Peers are not always gen'rous as well-bred, 
But Granby was, meant truly what he said. 
Jack bow'd, and was oblig'd — confess'd 'twas strange, 
That so retir'd he should not wish a cliange, 600 

But knew no medium between guzzling beer, 
And his old stint — three thousand pounds a year. 

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless wo : 
Some seeking happiness not found below ; 
Some to comply with humour, and a mind 605 

To social scenes by nature disinclin'd ; 
Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust ; 
Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must ; 
But few, that court Retirement, are aware 
Of half the toils they must encounter there. 610 

Lucrative ofKces are seldom lost 
For want of pow'rs proportion'd to the post : 
Give e'en a dunce th' employment he desires, 
And he soon finds the talents it requires ; 
A business with an income at its heels 615 

Furnishes always o\l for its o^^^l wheels. 
But in his arduous enterprise to close 
His active years with indolent repose, 
He finds the labours of that state exceed 
His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 620 

'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 
But not to manage leisure with a grace ; 
Absence of occupation is not rest, 
A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. 
The vet'ran steed, excus'd his task at length, 625 

In kind compassion of his failing strength, 



166 RETIREMENT. 

And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, 

Exempt from future service all his days, 

Theie feels a pleasure perfect in its kind, 

Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind : 630 

But when his lord would quit the busy road, 

To taste a joy like that he had bestow'd, 

He proves, less happy than his favour'd brute, 

A lite of ease a difficult pursuit. 

Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem 635 

As natural as when asleep to dream ; 

But reveries, (for human minds will act,) 

Specious in show, impossible in fact. 

Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, 

Attain not to the dignity of thought : 640 

Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain, 

Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign ; 

Nor such as useless conversation breeds. 

Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds. 

"Whence, and what are we ? to what end ordain'd ? 645 

What means the drama b}' the world sustain'd .-' 

Business or vain amusement, care or mirth, 

Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 

Is duty a mere sport, or an employ .'' 

Life an intrusted talent, or a toy ? 650 

Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture say, 

Cause to provide for a great future day, 

When earth's assign"d duration at an end, 

Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend ? 

The trumpet — will it sound ? the curtain rise ? 655 

And sliow the august tribunal of the skies, 

Where no prevarication shall avail. 

Where eloquence and artifice shall fail. 

The pride of arrogant distinctions fall, 

And conscience and our conduct judge us all ? 660 

Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil 

To learned cares of philosophick toil, 

Though I revere your honourable names. 

Your useful labours and important aims. 



RETIREMENT. 167 

And hold the world indebted to your aid, 665 

Enrich'd with the discov'ries ye have made ; 
Yet let me stand excus'd, if I esteem 
A mind employ'd on so sublime a theme, 
Pushing her bold inquiry to the date 
And outline of the present transient state, 670 

And after poising her advent 'reus wings, 
Setthng at last upon eternal things, 
Far more intelligent, and better taught 
The strenuous use of profitable thought, 
Than ye, when happiest, and enlighten'd most, 675 
And highest in renown, can justly boast. 
A mind unnerv'd, or indispos'd to bear 
The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, 
Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires. 
Must change her nature, or in vain retires. S80 

An idler is a watch that wants both hands ; 
As useless if it goes, as when it stands. 
Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves. 
In which lewd sensualists print out themselves ; 
Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow, 685 
With v/hat success let modern manners show ; 
Nor his, who, for the bane of thousands born. 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn, 
Skilful alike to seem devout and just, 
And stab religion with a sly side-thrust ; 690 

Nor those of learned philologists, who chase 
A panting syllable through time and space. 
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark. 
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark ; 
But such as learning without false pretence, 605 

The friend of truth, th' associate of good sense. 
And such as, in the zeal of good design. 
Strong judgment lab'ring in the Scripture mine, 
All such as manly and great souls produce. 
Worthy to live, and of eternal use ; 700 

Behold in these what leisure hours demand, 
Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. 



1G8 RETIHEMENT. 

Luxury gives the mind a childish cast, 

And, while she polishes, perverts the taste ; 

Habits of close attention, thinking heads, 705 

Become more rare as dissipation spreads. 

Till autliors hear at length one gen'ral cry, 

Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 

The loud demand, from year to year the same, 

Beggars Invention, and makes Fancy lame ; 710 

Till farce itself most mournfully jejune, 

Calls for the kind assistance of a tune ; 

And novels, (witness ev'ry month's review,) 

Belie their name, and offer nothing new. 

The mind, relaxing into needful sport, 715 

Should turn to writers of an abler sort. 

Whose wit well manag'd, and whose classick style, 

Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile. 

Friends, (for I cannot stint, as some have done. 

Too rigid in my view, that name to one ; 720 

Though one, I grant it, in the gen'rous breast 

Will stand advanc'd a step above the rest ; 

Flow'rs by that name promiscuously we call, 

But one, the rose, the regent of them all,) — 

Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, 725 

But chosen with a nice discerning taste. 

Well born, well disciplin'd, who, plac'd apart 

From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart. 

And though the world may think the ingredients odd, 

The love of virtue, and the fear of God ! 730 

Such, friends prevent what else would soon succeed, 

A temper rustick as the life we lead. 

And keep the polish of the manners clean. 

As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene ; 

For solitude, however some may rave, 735 

Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, 

A sepulchre, in which the living lie. 

Where all good qualities grow sick and die. 



RETIREMEiNT. 161) 

I praise tho Frenchman* his remark was shrewd — 
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude I 740 

But grant me still a friend in my retreat, 
Whom I may whisper — solitude is sweet. 
Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside, 
That appetite can ask, or wealth provide, 
Can save us always from a tedious day, 745 

Or shine the dulness of still life away ; 
Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd. 
Or sought with energy, must fill the void. 
O sacred art, to which alone life owes 
Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close ; 750 

Scorn'd in a world, indebted to that scorn 
For evils daily felt and hardly borne. 
Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding nands 
Flow'rs of rank odour upon thorny lands, 
And while Experience cautions us in vain, 755 

Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain. 
Despondence, self-deserted in her grief, 
Lost by abandoning her own relief, 
Murmuring and ungrateful discontent. 
That scorns afllictions mercifully meant, 760 

Those humours tart as wine upon the fret, 
Which idleness and weariness beget ; 
These, and a thousand plagues, that haunt the breast, 
Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest. 
Divine communion chases, as the day 765 

Drives to their dens th' obedient beasts of prey. 
See Judah"s promis'd king, bereft of all, 
Driv'n out an exile from the face of Saul ; 
To distant caves the lonely wand'rer flies. 
To seek that peace a tyra,nt's frown denies. 770 

Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice. 
Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, )'et rejoice ; 
No womanish or v/ailing grief has part. 
No, not a moment^ in his royal heart ; 

* Bruijcrc. 
Vol. I. 15 



170 RETIREMENT. 

'Tis manly musick, such as martyrs make, 775 

Suff 'ring with gladness for a Saviour's sake ; 

His soul exults, hope animates his lays, 

The sense of mercy kindles into praise, 

And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar. 

Ring with ecstatick sounds unheard before j 780 

'Tis love like his, that can alone defeat 

The foes of man, or make a desert sweet. 

Religion does not censure or exclude 
Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursu'd ; 
To study culture, and with artful toil 785 

To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
To give dissimilar, yet fruitful lands, 
The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands j 
To cherish virtue in an humble state, 
And share the joys your bounty may create ; 790 

To mark the matchless worldngs of the pow'r, 
That shuts within its seed the future flow'r, 
Bid these m elegance of form excel. 
In colour these, and those delight the smell , 
Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, 795 

To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes , 
To teach the canvass innocent deceit. 
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — 
These, these are arts pursu'd without a crime, 
That leave no stain upon the wing of Time. 800 

Me poetry, (or rather notes that aim 
Feebly and vainly at poetiek fame,) 
Employs, shut out from more important views, 
Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse; 
Content if thus sequester'd I may raise 805 

A monitor's though not a poet's praise. 
And while I teach an art too little known, 
To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS, 

OR, 
TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX- 

Verses addressed to a country clergyman, complaining 
of the disagreeableness of the day annually appoint- 
ed for receiving the dues at the parsonage. 



COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, 
T o laugh it would be wrong, 

The troubles of a worthy priest, 
The burden of my song. 

The priest he merry is and blithe, 
Three quarters of the year, 

But, oh ! it cuts him like a sithe, 
When tithing time draws near. 

He then is full of frights and fears, 

As one at point to die. 
And long before^the day appears. 

He heaves up many a sigh. 

For then the farmers come, jog, jog, 

Along the miry road, 
Each heart as heavy as a log. 

To make their payments good. 



172 THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 

In sooth, the sorrow of such days 

Is not to be cxpress'd, 
When he that takes, and he that pays, 

Are both alike distress'd. 

Now all unwelcome at his gates 

The clumsy swains alight, 
With rueful faces and bald pates-^ 

He trembles at the sight. 

And well he may, for well he knows 

Each bumpkin of the cian, 
Instead of paying what he owes, 

Will cheat him if he can. 

So in they come — each makes his leg, 

And flings his head before. 
And looks as if he came to beg. 

And not to quit a score. 

" And how does miss and madam do, 

" The little boy, and all ?" 
" All tight and well. And how do you 

" Good Mr. What-d'ye-call r 

The dinner cornes, and down they sit : 
Wore e'er such hungry folk .'' 

There's little tallying, and no wit ; 
It is no time to joke. 

One wipes his nose upon his sleevo, 

One spits upon the floor. 
Yet not to give offence or grieve, 

Holds up the cloth before. 

The punch goes round, and they are dull 

And lumpish still as ever ; 
Like barrels with their bellies full, 

They only weigh the heavier. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 173 

At length the busy time begins, 

" Come, neighbours, we must wag — " 
The money chinks, down drop their chins, 
Each lugging out his bag. 

One talks of mildew and of frost, 

And one of storms of hail, 
And one of pigs, that ho has lost 

By maggots at the tail. 

Quoth one, " A rarer man than you 

" In pulpit none shall hear : 
" But yet, methinks, to tell you true, 

" You sell it plaguy dear." 

O why arc farmers made so coarse, 

Or clergy made so fine ? 
A kick that scarce would move a horse, 

May kill a sound divine. 

Then let the boobies stay at home ', 

'T would cost him, I dare say, 
Less trouble taking twice the sum 
Without the clowns that 



(174) 



SONNET 



ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ES^. 

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the 
defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of 
Lords. 



COWPER. whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard 

Legends prolix delivers in the ears, 

(Attentive when thou read'st,) of England's peers. 
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
Expending late on all that length of plea 
Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee, 

Mute as e'er gaz'd on orator or bard. 

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside 

Both heart and head ; and couldst with musick sweet 
Of Attick phrase and senatorial tone. 
Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide 
Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet 
Of others' speech, but magick of thy own. 



(175) 

LINES, 
ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, 

Author of " The Botanick Garden." 

TWO Poets,* (poets by report, 

Not oft so well agree,) 
Sweet harmonists of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honour Thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetick birth 
By labours of their own. 

We therefore pleas'd extol thy song 

Though various yet complete, 
Rich in embellishment as strong 

And learned as 'tis sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise. 
Though, could our hearts repine 

At any poet's happier lays, 

They would — they must at thine. 

But we in mutual bondage kni* 

Of friendship's closest tie, 
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 

With an unjaundic'd eye ; 

And deem tho Bard; v/hoo'er he be, 

And howsoever known, 
Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, 

Unworthy of his own. 

• Mluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, lokich ac- 
companied these lines. 



(176) 



MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANG- 
INGS. 



THE Birds put off their ev'ry hue, 
To dress a room for Montagu. 

The Peacock sends liis heavenly dyes, 
His rainbows and his starry eyes ; 
The Pheasant plumes, which round infold 
His mantling neck with downy gold ; 
The Cock his arch'd tail's azure show ; 
And, river-blanch'd, the Swan his snow 
All tribes beside of Indian name, 
That glossy shine, or vivid flame. 
Where rises and where sets the day, 
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay, 
Contribute to the gorgeous plan, 
Proud to advance it all they can. 
This plumage neither dashing show'r. 
Nor blasts that shake the dripping bow'r, 
Shall drench again or discompose, 
But, screen'd from every storm that blowe, 
It boasts a splendour ever new. 
Safe with protecting Montagu. 

To this same patroness resort. 
Secure of favour at her court. 
Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought 
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 
Which, though new-born, with vigour move, 
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove — 



ON MRS. MONTAGU'S HANGINGS. 177 

Imagination scatt'ring round 
Wild roses over furroAv'd ground, 
Which Labour of his frown beguile, 
And teacli Philosophy a smile — 
Wit flashing on Religion's side, 
Whose fires to sacred Truth applied, 
The gem, though luminous before, 
Obtrudes on human notice m.ore. 
Like sunbeams on the golden height 
Of some tall temple playing bright — 
Well-tutor'd Learning, from his books 
Dismiss'd Avith grave, not haughty, looks 
Their order on his shelves exact, 
Not more harmonious or compact 
Than that to which he keeps confin'd 
The various treasures of his mind — 
All these to Montagu's repair, 
Ambitious of a shelter there : 
There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, 
Their ruffled plumage calm refit, 
(For stormy troubles loudest roar 
Around their flight who highest soar,) 
And in her eye, and by her aid, 
Shine safe without a fear to fade. 

She thus maintains divided sway 
With yon bright regent of the day : 
The plume and poet both, we know. 
Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
And she the works of Phoebus aiding, 
Both poet saves and pliune from fading. 



(178) 



VERSES 



Supposed to be written hy Alexander Selkirk^ during 
his solitary abode on the island of Juan Fernandez. 



I. 

I AM monarch of all I survey, 
My right there is none to dispute ; 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
Than reign in this horrible place. 
II. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone. 
Never hear the sweet musick of speech, 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain. 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so imacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 
III. 
Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove. 

How soon would I taste you again ' 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer 'd by the sallies of youth 



VERSES BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK. 179 
IV. 
Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard, 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 

Or srail'd when a sabbath appear'd. 

V. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me .-* 
O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

VI. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind I 

Compar d with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the swift- winged arrows of light. 
When I think of ray own native land. 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

VII. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nesl, 

The beast is laid down in his lair j 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place. 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

And reconciles man to his lot 



(180) 



ON THE PROMOTION OF 



EDWARD THURLOW, ESa 
To the Lord High Chancellorship of England, 



I. 
ROUND Thurlow's head, in early youth, 

And in his sportive days, 
Fair Science pour'd the light of truth 

And Genius shed his rays. 
II. 
See ! with united wonder, cried 

Th' experienc'd and the sage, 
Ambition in a boy supplied 

With all the skill of age! 
III. 
Discernment, eloquence, and grace, 

Proclaim him born to sway 
The balance in the highest place, 

And bear the palm away. 
IV. 
The praise bestow'd was just and wise , 

He sprang impetuous forth, 
Secure of conquest, where the prize 

Attends superiour worth. 
V. 
So the best courser on the plain 

Ere yet he starts is known, 
And does but at the goal obtain 

What all had deem'd his own. 



(181) 



ODE TO PEACE. 



I. 

COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! 
Return and make thy downy nest 

Once more in this sad heart : 
Nor riches I nor pow'r pursue, 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 

We therefore need not part. 
II. 
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, 
From av'rice and ambition free, 

And pleasure's fatal wiles ? 
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
The sweets that I was wont to share, 

The banquet of thy smiles ? 
III. 
The great, the gay, shall they partake, 
The Heav'n that thou alone canst make ? 

And wilt thou quit the stream 
That murmurs through the dewy mead, 
The grove and the sequester'd shed 

To be a guest with them ? 
IV. 
For thee I panted, thee I priz'd, 
For thee I gladly sacrific'd 

Whate'er I lov'd before ; 
And shall I see thee start away. 
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say — 

Farewell ! we meet no more ? 
Vol. I IG 



(182) 
HUMAN FRAILTY. 



1. 

WEAK and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day, 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 
II. 
The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string, 

And it revives again. 
III. 
Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out liis weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent. 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 
IV. 
Tis here the folly of the wise 

Through all his heart we view ; 
And, while his tongue the charge denies, 

His conscience owns it true. 
V. 
Bound on a voyage of awful length 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superiour strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 
VI. 
But oars alone can ne'er prevail, 

To reach the distant coast ; 
The breath of Heavn must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 



( 183 ) 



THE MODERN PATRIOT. 



I. 
REBELLION is my theme all day : 

I only wish 'twould come, 
(As who Imows but perhaps it may ?) 
A little nearer home. 
II. 
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 

On t'other side th' Atlantick, 
I always held them in the right, 
But most so when most frantick. 
III. 
When lawless mobs insult the court, 

That man shall be my toast, 
If breaking windows be the sport, 
Who bravely breaks the most. 
IV. 
But, O ! for him my fancy culls 

The choicest flow'rs she bears, 
Who constitutionally pulls 
Your house about your ears. 
V. 
Such civil broils are my delight, 

Though some folks can't endure them, 
Who say the mob are mad outright. 
And that a rope must cure them. 
VI. 
A rope ! I wish we patriots had 

Such strings for all who need 'em— 
What ! hang a man for going mad ! 
Then farewell British freedom. 



(184) 



On observing some JVames of little note recorded in 
the Biographia Britannica. 



OH, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
In vain, recorded in historick page, 
They court the notice of a future age • 
Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand 
Lethasan gulfs receive them as they fall. 
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 

So when a child, as playful children use, 
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark ! 
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk • 



REPORT 



Of an adjudged Case, not to be found in any of 
Books. 



I. 
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows^ 

To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 



REPORT OF A LAW CASE. 185 

II. 

So Tongue was tlie lawyer, and argued the cause 

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, 
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning. 
III. 
In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 
That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear. 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
IV. 
Then holding the spectacles up to the court. 

Your lordship observes they are made with a 
straddle 
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
V. 
Agam, would 3^our lordship a moment suppose, 

('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again,) 
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then t 
VI. 
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose 
And the Nose was as plainly i»tended for them. 
VII. 
Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows now,) 

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
But what were his arguments few people know. 
For the court did not think they were equally wise 
VIII. 
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone. 

Decisive and clear, without one if or hut — 
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
By day-light or candle-light — Eyes should be shut 
16* 



(186) 



on 
THE BURNING 

OP 

LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. 

By the Mob, in the month of June, 1780 



I. 

So then — the Vandals of our isle, 

Sworn foes to sense and law. 
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 

Than ever Roman saw ! 
11. 
And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, 

And many a treasure more, 
The well-judged purchase and the gift, 

That grac'd his letter'd store. 
III. 
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, 

The loss was his alone ; 
But ages yet to come shall mourn 

The burning of his oion 



(187) 



ON THE SAME. 



I. 
WHEN Wit and Genius meet tlieir doom 

In all-devourinff flame, 
They tell us of the fate of Rome, 

And bid us fear the same . 
II. 
O'er Murray's loss the muses wept, 

They felt the rude alarm, 
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept 

His sacred head from harm. 
III. 
There mem'ry, like the bee, that's fed 

From Flora's balmy store, 
The quintessence of all he read 

Had treasur'd up before. 
IV. 
The lawless herd, with fury blind, 

Have done him cruel wrong ; 
The flowTS are gone — but still we find 

The honey on his tongue. 



(188) 



LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED 



OR; HYPOCRISY DETECTED.' 

THUS says the prophet of the Turk — 
Good musselman, abstain from pork ; 
There is a part in every swine 
No friend or follower of mine 
May taste, whate'er his inclination, 
Upon pain of excommunication. 
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part express'd, 
They might with safety eat the rest ; 
But for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarr'd ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straight arose, 
These choose the back, the belly those ; 
By some 'tis confidently said 
He meant not to forbid the head ; 
While others at that doctrine rail, 
And piously prefer the tail. 
Thus conscience freed from ev'ry clog, 
Mahometans eat up the hog. 

* It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece 
has already appeared in print, having found its way, though 
with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into 
the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity. 



HYPOCRISY DETECTED. 189 

You laugh — 'tis well — The tale applied, 
May make you laugh on t'other side, 
Renounce the world — the preacher cries ; 
We do — a multitude replies. 
While one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards ; 
And one, whatever you may say, 
Can see no evil in a play j 
Some love a concert or a race ; 
And others shooting, and the chace, 
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd, 
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd ; 
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free. 
Yet likes a shoe as well as he : 
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF 

MRS. (now lady) THROCKMORTON'S 

BULFINCH. 



YE nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red 
With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed 

O share Maria's grief ! 
Her fav'rite, even in his cage, 
(What will not hunger's cruel rage ?) 

Assassin'd by a thief. 



190 LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. 

Where Rhenus strays liis vines among, 
The egg was laid from which he sprung ; 

And, though by nature mute, 
Or only with a whistle blest, 
Well taught he all the sounds expressed 

Of flagelet or flute. 

The honours of his ebon poll 

Were brighter than the sleekest mole, 

His bosom of the hue 
With which Aurora decks the skies 
When piping winds shall soon arise 

To sweep away the dew. 

Above, below, in all the house, 
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse, 

No cat had leave to dwell ; 
And Bully's cage supported stood 
On props of smooth-shaven wood, 

Large built and lattic'd well. 

Well lattic'd — but the grate, alas ! 
I Not rough with wire of steel or brass, 

i For Bullj'-'s plumage sake, 

j But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, 

! With which, when neatly peal'd and dried, 

I The swains their baskets make. 



j Night veil'd the pole ; all seem'd secure , 

I When led by instinct, sharp and sure, 

j Subsistence to provide, 

! A beast forth sallied on the scout, 

1 Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snoQty 

I And badger-colour'd hide. 

j He, ent'ring at the study door 

I Its ample area 'gan explore •■ 
j And something in the wind 



THE ROSE. 191 

Conjectur'd, sniffing round and round, 
Better tlian all the books he found, 
Food chiefly for the mind. 

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, 
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest ; 

In sleep he seem'd to view 
A rat fast clinging to the cage, 
And screaming at the sad presage, 

Awoke and found it true. 

For aided both by ear and scent, 
Right to his mark the monster went — 

Ah muse ! forbear to speak 
Minute the horrors that ensu'd ; 
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood — 

He left poor Bully's beak. 

O had he made that too his prey ; 
That beak, whence issu'd many a lay 

Of such mellifluous tone. 
Might have repaid him well I wote, 
For silencing so sweet a throat, 

Fast stuck within his own. 

Maria weeps — the muses mourn — 
So when by Bacchanalians torn. 

On Thracean Hebrus' side. 
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, 
His head alone remain 'd to tell 

The cruel death he died. 



THE ROSE. 

The Rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r 

Which Mary to Anna convey'd, 
The plentiful moisture encumber "d the flow'r 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 



192 THE DOVES. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves wexe all wet, 

And it seem'd to a fajiciful view, 
To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 

On the flourishing bush where it grew 

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp'd it — it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the deUcate mind, 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resign'd. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ; 

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, 
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile. 



THE DOVES. 

I. 

REAS'NING at ev'ry step he treads, 

Man yet mistakes his way. 
While meaner tilings, whom instinct leadSi 

Are rarely known to stray. 
II. 
One silent eve I wander'd late, 

And heard the voice of love : 
The turtle thus address'd her mate, 

And sooth'd the list'ning dove : 



THE DOVES. 193 

111. 
Our mutual bond of faith and truth, 

No time shall disengage, 
Those blessings of our early youth 
Shall cheer our latest age : 

IV. 

While innocence without disguise, 

And constancy sincere, 
Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 

And mine can read them there. 

V. 

Those ills that wait on all below, 

Shall ne'er be felt by me, 
Or gently felt, and only so, 

As being shar'd with thee. 

VI. 
When lightnings flash among the treeS) 

Or kites are hov'ring near, 
I fear lest thee alone they seize. 

And know no other fear. 

VII. 
'Tis then I feel myself a wife. 

And press thy wedded side, 
Resolv'd a union form'd for life, 

Death never shall divide. 

VIII. 
But oh ! if fickle and unchaste, 

(Forgive a transient thought,) 
Thou could become unlcind at last, 

And scorn thy present lot, 

IX. 

No need of lightnings from on high, 

Or kites with cruel beak ; 
Denied th' endearments of thine eye, 
This widow'd heart would break 
Vol. I. 17 



194 A FABLE. 

X. 
Thus sang the sweet sequcster'd bird, 

Soft as the passing wind, 
And I recorded what I heard, 

A lesson for mankind. 



A FABLE. 



A RAVEN, Avhile with glossy breast 

Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, 

And, on her wicker work high mounted, 

Her chickens prematurely counted, 

(A fault philosophers might blame 

If quite exempted from the same,) 

Enjoy 'd at ease the genial day ; 

'Twas April, as the bumpkins say. 

The legislature call'd it May. 

But suddenly a wind as high 

As ever swept a winter sky, 

Shook the young leaves about her ears, 

And fiird her with a thousand fears, 

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 

And spread her golden hopes below. 

But just at eve the blowing weather, 

And all her fears were hush'd together : 

And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 

'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; 

(For ravens, though as birds of omen 

They teach both conj'rers and old women, 

To tell us what is to befall. 

Can't prophesy themselves at all ;) 

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge 

"Who long had mark'd her airy lodge. 



A COMPARISON. 195 

And destin'd all the treasure there 
A gift to his expecting fair, 
Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, 
And bore the worthless prize away. 



MORAL. 



'Tis Providence alone secures 
In ev'ry change both niine and yonrs 
Safety consists not in escape 
From dangers of a frightful shape ; 
An earthquake may be bid to spare 
The man that's strangled by a hair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread, 
Found oft'nest in what least we dread, 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 



A COMPARISON. 



THE lapse of time and rivers is the same. 
Both speed their journey with a restless stream 
The silent pace with which they steal away, 
No wealth can bribe, no pray'rs persuade to stay 
Alike irrevocable both when past, 
And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 
Though each resemble each in ev'ry part, 
A diff'rence strikes at length the musing heart ; 



196 THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 

Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound, 
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd ' 
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, 
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 



ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED TO A yOUJSG LADV. 

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, 
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 
Silent and chaste she steals along, 
Far from the world's gay busy throng; 
With gentle, yet prevailing force, 
Intent upon her destin'd course ; 
Graceful and useful all she does. 
Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes, 
Pure-bosom'd as that wat'ry glass. 
And Heav'n reflected in her face. 



THE 

POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, 

TO MRS. (now lady) THROCKMORTON. 

MARIA ! I liave ev'ry good 
For thee wish'd many a time, 

Both sad and in a cheerful mood, 
But never yet in rhyme. 



ODE TO APOLLO. 197 

To wish thee fairer is no need, 

More prudent, or more sprightly. 
Or more ingenious, or more freed 

From temper flaws unsightly. 

What favour then not yet possess'd 

Can I for thee require, 
In wedded love already blest, 

To thy whole heart's desire .' 

None here is happy but in part : 

Full bliss is bliss divine : 
There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart, 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish on some fair future day, 

Which Fate shall brightly gild, 
('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 

I wish it all fuimi'd. 



ODE TO APOLLO. 



On an Inhglass ahnost dried in the sun 

PATRON of all those luckless brains, 
That, to the wrong side leaning, 

Indite much metre with much pains, 
And little or no meaning. 

And why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 

That water all the nations. 
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams. 

In constant exhalations j 
17* 



198 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 

Why, stooping from the noon of day, 

Too covetous of drink, 
Apollo, hast thou stol'n away 

A poet's drop of ink ? 

Upborne into the viewless air, 

It floats a vapour now, 
Impell'd through regions dense and rare, 

By all the winds that blow. 

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies, 
Combin'd with millions more. 

To form an Iris in the skies, 
Though black and foul before. 

Illustrious drop ! and happy then 

Beyond the happiest lot, 
Of all that ever pass'd my pen, 

So soon to be forgot. 

Phoebus, if such be thy design. 

To place it in thy bow, 
Give wit, that what is left may shine 

With equal grace below. 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED, 



I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rosseau,* 
If birds confabulate or no ; 

• It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philoso- 
pher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to ani- 
mals, shonld be withheld from children, as being- only vehicles 
of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or 
can be, against the evidence of his senses ? 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 199 

Tis clear that they were always able 

To hold discourse — at least in fable } 

And e'en the child who knows no better, 

Than to interpret by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull, 

Must have a most uncommon skull. 

It chanc'd then on a winter's day, 
But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
The birds, conceiving a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
Assembed on affairs of love, 
And with much twitter and much chatter, 
Began to agitate the matter. 
At length a Bulfinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the most. 
Entreated, op'ning wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak ; 
And, silence publickly enjoin'd. 
Deliver 'd briefly thus his mind : 

My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
Tlie subject upon which we meet ; 
I fear we shall have winter yet. 

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
With golden wing, and satin poll, 
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
What marriage means, thus pert replied : 

Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 
Opposite in the apple tree. 
By his good will would keep us single 
Till yonder Heav'n and earth shall mingle 
Or, (which is likelier to befall.) 
Till death exterminate us all. 
I marry v/lUiout more ado. 
My de ar Dick Redcap, what say you .' 

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, 
Turning short round, strutting, and sideling, 



200 ■ PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 

Attested, glad, his approbation 
Of an immediate conjugation. 
Their sentiments, so well express'd, 
Inflnenc'd mightily the rest, 
All pair "d, and each pair built a nest. 

But though the birds were thus in haste, 
The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
And destiny, that sometimes bears 
An aspect stern on man's affairs, 
Not altogether smil'd on theirs. 
The wind of late breath'd gently forth, 
Now sliifled east, and east by north ; 
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know. 
Could shelter them from rain or snow. 
Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled ; 
Soon ev'ry father bird and mother 
Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 
Parted without the least regret, 
Except that they had never met ; 
And learn'd, in future, to be wiser 
Than to neglect a good adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses ! the tale that I relate 
This lesson seems to carry — 

Choose not alone a proper mate, 
But proper time, to marry. 



(201) 
THE DOG 

AND 

THE WATER-LILY. 

NO FABLE. 



THE noon was shady, and soft airs 

Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
When, scap'd from literary cares, 

I wander'd on his side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs* adorii'd with ev'ry grace 

That spaniel found for me.) 

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursu'd the swallow o'er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse display'd 

His lilies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent survey'd, 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly caught, 

Escap'd my eager hand. 

* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. 



202 TPIE POET, OYSTER, &c. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 

With fix'd considerate face, 
And puzzling set his puppy brains 
To comprehend the case. 

But with a cherup clear and strong, 

Dispersing all his dream, 
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I return'd ; 

Beau trotting far before, 
The floating wreath again discern'd, 

And plunging left the shore. 

I sav/ him with that lily cropp'd, 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 

The treasure at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, 

Shall hear of this thy deed : 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superiour breed : 

But chief myself I will enjoin, 

Awake at duty's call, 
To show a love as prompt as thine, 

To him who gives me all. 



THE POET, THE OYSTER, 

AND 

SENSITIVE PLANT. 

AN Oyster, cast upon the shore. 
Was heard, though never heard before, 



THE POET, OYSTER, &c. 203 

Complaining in a speech well worded. 
And worthy thus to he recorded — 

Ah, hapless wretch ! condemned to dwell 
For ever in my native shell ; 
Ordain'd to move when others please, 
Not for my own content or ease • 
But toss'd, and buffotted about, 
Now in the water, and now out. 
'Twere better to be borne a stone, 
Of ruder shape and feeling none. 
Than with a tenderness like mine, 
And sensibilities so fine I 
I envy that unfeeling shrub. 
Fast rooted against ev'ry rub. 
The plant he meant grew not far off, 
And felt the sneer with scorn enough ', 
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified. 
And with asperity replied. 

When, cry the botanists, and stare, 
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there ? 
No matter when — a poet's muse is, 
To make them grow just where she choosos 

You shapeless notliing in a dish, 
You that are but almost a fish, 
I scorn your coarse insinuation. 
And have most plentiful occasion, 
To wish myself the rock I view, 
Or such another dolt as you : 
For many a grave and learned clerk, 
A many a gay unletter'd spark. 
With curious touch examines me, 
If I can feel as well as he ; 
And when I bend, retire, and shrink. 
Says — Well, 'tis more than one would think ! 
Thus life is spent, (oh fie upon't !) 
In being touch'd, and crying — Don't ! 

A poet in his ev'ning walk, 
O'erheard, and check'd this idle talk 



204 THE SHRUBBERY. 

And your fine sense, he said, and yours, 
Whatever evil it endures, 
Deserves not, if so soon offended, 
Much to be pitied or commended- 
Disputes thoug-h short, are far too long, 
Where botli alike are in the Avrong ; 
Your feelings in their full amount, 
Are all upon your own account. 

You, in your grotto work enclos'd, 
Complain of being thus expos'd ; 
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat, 
Save when the knife is at your throat, 
Where'er driv'n by wind or tide. 
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside. 

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish, 
If all the plants that can be found. 
Embellishing the scene around. 
Should drop and wither where they grow, 
You would not feel at all — not you. 
The noblest minds their virtue prove 
By pity, sympathy, and love : 
These, these are feelings truly fine, 
And prove their owner half divine. 

His censure reach 'd them as he dealt it. 
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it. 



THE SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. 
I. 

OH happy shades — to me unblest ! 

Friendly to peace, but not to me ! 
How ill the scene, that offers rest, 

And heart that cjinnot rest, aafree ! 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 205 

II. 

This glassy stream, that spreading pine 

Those alders quiv'riiig to the breeze, 
Might sootli a soul less hu^t than mine, 

And please, if any thing could please. 
III. 
But lix'd, unalterable Care 

Foregoes not what she feels within, 
Shows the same sadness ev'ry where. 

And slights the season and the scene. 
IV. 
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, 

While peace possessed these silent bow'rs, 
Her animating smile withdrawn, 

Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs 
V. 
The saint or moralist sJiould tread 

This moss-grown alloy, musing, slow j 
They seek like me the secret shade, 

But not like me to nourish wo ! 
VI. 
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 

Alike admonish not to roam ; 
These tell me of enjoyments past, 

And those of sorrows yet to come. 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY 

I. 

WHAT Nature, alas ! has denied 

To the delicate growth of our isle, 
Art has in a measure supplied, 
And winter is deck'd with a smile. 
Vol. I 18 



206 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 

See, Mary, what beauties I bring 

From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring, 

Though abroad they are frozen and dead, 
II. 
'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets, 

Where Flora is still in her prime, 
A fortress to which she retreats 

From the cruel assaults of the clime 
While earth wears a mantle of snow, 

These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest, that blow 

On the beautiful bosom of May 
III. 
See how they have safely surviv'd 

The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd 

Through many a turbulent year. 
The charms of the late blowing rose 

Seem'd grac'd with a liveHer hue, 
And the winter of sorrow best shows, 

The truth of a friend such as you. 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 

KECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED 



THE Lady thus address'd her spouse — 
What a mere dungeon is this house I 
By no means large enough ; and was it, 
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet. 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 207 

Those hangings with their worn out graces, 
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces. 
Are such an antiquated scene, 
They overwhelm me with the spleen. 
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, 
Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
No doubt, my dear ; I bade him come, 
Engag'd myself to be at home. 
And shall expect him at the door, 
Precisely when the clock stril^es four. 

You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside,) 
You are so sadly deaf, my dear. 
What shall I do to make you hear ? 

Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
Some people are more nice than wise. 
For one slight trespass all this stir ? 
What if he did ride whip and spur, 
'Twas but a mile — your fav'rite horse 
Will never look one hair the worse. 

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — 
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — 
Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl 
I tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
Then with a voice exceeding low, 
No matter if you hear or no. 

Alas ! and is domestick stife, 
That sorest ill of human life, 
A plague so little to be fear'd, 
As to be wantonly incurr'd, 
To gratify a fretful passion, 
On ev'ry trivial provocation ? 
The kindest and the happiest pair 
Will find occasion to forbear ; 
And something ev'ry day they hve, 
To pity, and, perhaps, forgive. 

But if infirmities, that fall 
In common to the lot of all, 



208 THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 

A blemish or a sense impair'd, 
Are crimes so little to be spar'd, 
Then farewell all, that must create 
The comfort of the wedded state ; 
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
And tumult, and intestine war. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage, 
Proof against sickness and old age, 
Preserv'd by virtue from declension, 
Becomes not weary of attention ; 
But lives, when that exteriour grace, 
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays. 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind. 
To faults compassionate or blind, 
And will with sympathy endure 
Those evils, it would gladly cure : 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



NEGRO'S COMPLAINT 

FORC'D from home and all its pleasures 

Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 
To increase a stranger's treasures. 

O'er the raging billows borne. 
Men from England bought and sold me, 

Paid my price in paltry gold ; 
But though slave they have enroU'd me, 

Minds are never to be sold 



THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 209 

Still in thought as free as ever, 

Wliat are England's rights I ask, 
Me from my deliglits to sever, 

Me to torture, me to task ? 
Fleecy locks and black complexion, 

Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 
Skins may differ, but affection 

Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating Nature 

M-^.ke the plant for which we toil — 
Sighs must fan it, tears must water. 

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted. 

Lolling at your jovial boards ; 
Think how many backs have smarted 

For the sweets your cane affords. 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us. 

Is there one, who reigns on high ? 
Has he bid you buy and sell us. 

Speaking from his throne, the sky ? 
Ask him, if your knotted scourges, 

Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
Are the means that duty urges 

Agents of his will to use ? 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes. 

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 

Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He, foreseeing what vexations 

Afric's sons should undergo, 
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 

Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 

By our blood in Afric wasted. 

Ere our necks receiv'd the chain ; 
By the mis'ries that we tasted. 

Crossing in your barks the main j 
18 "^ 



210 PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 

By our sufTrings since ye brought us 
To the man-degrading mart ; 
All-sustain'd by patience, taught us 
Only by a broken heart ; 

Deem our nation brutes no longer, 

Till some reason 3'^e shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger 

Than the colour of our kind. 
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 

Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs, 
Prove that you have human feelings, 

Ere you proudly question ours ! 



PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 

Video meliora proboque, 
Deleriora sequor 

I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, 

And fear those who buy them and sell them aro 

knaves ; 
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and 

groans, 
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. 

I pity them greatly — but I must be mum — 
For how could we do without sugar and rum ? 
Especially sugar, so needful we see .'' 
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea ! 

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, 
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains : 
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will, 
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 



PITY FOR AFRICANS. 211 

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, 
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said j 
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks ? 

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd 
On purpose to answer you out of my mint : 
But I can assure you I saw it in print : 

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob. 
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd — " Oh no ! 
What ! rob our good neighbour ! I pray you don't go ; 
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed '* 

" You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we'll have ; 
If you will go with us, you shall have a share, 
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 

They spoke, and Tom ponder'd — '- I see they will go ; 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could 
But staying behind will do him no good. 

" If the matter depended alone upon me. 
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree ; 
But since they will take them, I think I'll go to, 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 

His scruples thus silenc'd, Tom felt more at ease, 
And went with his comrades the apples to seize ) 
He blam'd and protested, but join 'd in the plan : 
He shar'd in the plunder, but pitied the man. 



(212) 

THE 

MORNING DREAM. 



'TWAS in the glad season of spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream'd what I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I dream'd, that on ocean afloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

xAind the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe, 

Ne'er taught me by woman before. 
She sat, and a shield at her side 

Shed light like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cried — 

" I go to make freemen of slaves." — 

Then raising her voice to a strain 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
! She sung of the slave's broken chain. 

Wherever her glory appear'd. 
Some clouds, which had over us hung 

Fled, chas'd by her melody clear. 
And methought while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood. 
To a slave-cultur'd island we came, 

Where a demon her enemy stood — 
Oppression his terrible name. 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM. 213 
In his hand, as the sign of liis sway, 

A scourge hunor with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out for his prey 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as approaching the land, 

That goddess-like woman he view'd, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand. 

With blood of his subjects imbru'd. 
I saw him both sicken and die, 

And the moment the monster expir'd, 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

Awaking, liow could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide : 
But soon my ear caught the glad news, 

Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide — 
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-scepter'd rulers of slaves, 

Resolves to have none of her own. 



THE 

NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. 

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might, 
The keen demands of appetite ; 



214 THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM 

When looking eagerly around, 

He spied far off upon the ground, 

A something shining in the dark, 

And knew the glow-worm by his spark ; 

So stooping down from hawthorn top, 

He thought to put him in his crop. 

The worm aware of his intent, 

Harangu'd him thus right eloquent. 

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, 
As much as I your minstrelsy; 
You would abhor to do me wrong, 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the self-same pow'r divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
That you with musick, I with light, 
Might beautify and cheer tlie night 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And warbling out his approbation, 
Releas'd him as my story tells, 
And found a supper somewhere else. 
Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real int'rest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brother, 
And worry and devour each other ; 
But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
Till life's poor transient night is spent, 
Respecting in each other's case 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

Those Christians best deserve the name, 
Who studiously make peace their aim , 
Peace both the duty and the prize 
Of hira that creeps, and him that flies. 



(215) 



ON A GOLDFINCH, 



STARTED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE 



I. 

TIME was when I was free as air, 
The thistle's downy seed my fare. 

My drink the morning dew ; 
I perch'd at will on ev'ry spray, 
My form genteel, my plumage gay, 

My strains for ever new. 
II. 
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And form genteel, were ail in vain, 

And of a transient date ; 
For caught, and cag'd, and starv'd to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 

Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 
III. 
Thanks gentle swain, for all my woes, 
And thanks for this effectual close 

And cure of ev'ry ill ! 
More cruelty could none express ; 
And I, if you had shown mo less, 

Had been your pris'ner still. 



(216) 

THE 

PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. 



THE pine-apples in triple row, 
Were basking hot, and all in blow ; 
A bee of most discerning taste 
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass'd, 
On eager wing the spoiler came, 
And search'd for crannies in the frame, 
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry side, 
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied ; 
But still in vain, the frame was tight, 
And only pervious to the light ; 
Thus having wasted half the day, 
He trimm'd his flight another way. 

Methinks, I said, in thee I find 
The sin and madness of mankind. 
To joys forbidden man aspires, 
Consumes his soul with vain desires ; 
Folly the spring of his pursuit. 
And disappointment all the fruit. 
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes. 
The nymph between two chariot glasses, 
She is the pine-apple, and he 
The silly unsuccessful bee. 
The maid, who views with pensive air 
The show-glass fraught with gUtt'ring ware, 
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, 
But sighs at thought of empty pockets ; " 
Like thine, her appetite is keen. 
But ah the cruel glass between. 

Our dear delights are often such, 
Expos'd to view but not to touch j 



HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X. 81 

The sight our foolish heart inflames, 
We lonjT for pine-apples in frames ; 
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers ; 
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; 
But they whom truth and wisdom lead, 
Can gather honey from a weed. 



HORACE, BOOK 11. ODE X. 



I. 

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach, 
So shalt thou live beyond the reach 

Of adverse Fortune's pow'r ; 
Not always tempt the distant deep, 
Nor always timorously creep 

Along the treach'rous shore. 
11. 
He that holds fast the golden mean, 
And lives contentedly between 

The little and the great, 
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
Nor plagues, that haunt the rich man's door, 

Imbitt'ring all his state. 
III. 
The tallest pine feels most the pow'r 
Of wintry blasts ; the loftiest tower 

Comes heaviest to the ground ; 
The bolts that spare the mountain's side, 
His cloud-capt eminence divide, 

And spread the ruin round. 
Vol. I. 19 



218 A REFLECTION, &c. 

IV. 

The well-lnfcnn'd philosopher 
Rejoices V7ith a wholesome fear, 

And hopes in spite of pain ; 
If winter bellow from the north. 
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth) 

And nature laughs again. 
V. 
What if thine Heav'n be overcast, 
The dark appearance w ill not last ; 

Expect a brighter sky. 
The God that strings the silver bow, 
Awakes sometimes the muses too 

And lays his arrows by. 
VI. 
If hindrances obstruct thy way, 
Thy magnanimity display, 

And let thy strength be seen ; 
But oh ! if Fortune fill thy sail 
VS^ith more than a propitious gale, 

Take half thy canvass in. 

ii 
A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE. | 

i 

AND is this all .' Can reason do no more, 
Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore. 
Sweet moralist .-' afloat on life's rough sea, 
The Christian has an art unknown to thee. 
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; 
Where duty bids, he confidently steers. 
Faces a thousand dangers at her call. 
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them alL 



(219) 



THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 



1. 

THE Nymph must lose her female friend, 

If more admir'd than she — 
But where will fierce contention end, 

If flow'rs can disagree ? 
II. 
Within the garden's peaceful scene 

Appear'd two lovely foes, 
Aspiring to the rank of queen, 

The Lily and tlie Rose. 
III. 
The Rose soon redden'd into rage, 

And swelling with disdain, 
Appeal'd to many a poet's page, 

To prove her right to reign. 
IV. 
The Lily's height bespoke command, 

A fair imperial flow'r ; 
She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand, 

The sceptre of her pow'r. 
V. 
This civil bick'ring and debate 

The goddess chanc'd to hear, 
And flew to save, ere yet too late, 

The pride of the parterre ; 
VL 
Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 

And yours the stateliei mien : 
And till a third surpasses you, 

Let each be deem'd a queen 



220 LILIUM ET ROSA. 

VII. 

Thus, sooth'd and reconcil'd, each seeks 

The fairest British fair, 
The seat of empire is her cheeks, 

They reign united there. 



IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 



I. 

HEU inimicitias quoties parit aemula forma, 

Quam raro pulchrae pulchra placere potest ? 
Sed fines ultra solitos discordia tendit, 

Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent. 
II. 
Hortus ubi dulces praebet tacitosque recussus, 

Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas } 
Hie sibi regales Amaryllis Candida cultus, 

Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa. 
III. 
Ira Rosam et meritis quiEsita superbia tangunt, 

Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinu, 
Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatura, 

Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat, 
IV. 
Altior emicat ilia, et celso vertice nutat, 

Ceu flores inter non habitura parem, 
Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus 

Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat. 
V. 
Nee Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixae, 

Cui curse est pictas pandere ruris opes. 
Deliciasque suas nimquam non prompta tttori} 

Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest 



TPIE POPLAR FIELD. 221 

VL 

Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus, inquit j 

Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color ; 
Et donee vincat qusedam formosior ambas, 

Et tibi reginffi nomen, et esto tibi. 
VIL 
His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham, 

Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit ; 
Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, liujus 

Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis. 



THE POPLAR FIELD 



THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade, 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; 
The winds play no longer and smg in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elaps'd since I last took a view 
Of my fav'rite field, and the bank where they grew, 
And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels afford Iiim a screen from the heat, 
And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before, 
Resounds ^vith his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away. 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as thoy. 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead 

Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can, 
Co muse on the perishing pleasures of man , 
19* 



222 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I 
Have a being less durable even than he.* 



IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

POPULE^ cecidit gratissima copia silvae, 
Conticuere susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra. 
Nullae jam levibus so miscent frondibus aurse, 
Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago. 

Hei mihi ! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos, 
His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu 
Cum sero rediens ; stratasque in gramine cernens, 
Insedi arboribus, sub quels orrare solebam. 

Ah ubi nunc raerulse cantus ? Felicior ilium 
Silva tegit, durce nondum permissa bipenni ; 
Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes 
Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit. 

Sad qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse, 
Et prius huic parillis quam creverit altera silva 
Fiebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo 
Defixum lapidem tumulique cubantis acervimi. 

Tam subito periisse videns tam digna manere, 
Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata — 
Sit licet ipse brevis, volucrique simillimus umbrae, 
Est homini brevier citiusque obitura voluptas. 

* Mr Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the 
following memuer : 
The change both my heart and my fanc}' employs, 
I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
Short-liv'd as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter datC; and die sooner than we. 



(223) 
VOTUM. 



O MATUTINI rores, auraeque salubres, 

O nemora, et IsetoB rivis felicibus herbas, 

Graminei colles, et arasenoe in vallibus umbrsB ! 

Fata niodo dederint quas olim in rure paterno 

Delicias, procul arte procul formidine novi, 

Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper avebat, 

Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senectam, 

Turn demum, exactis non infeliciter annis, 

Sortiri taciturn lapidem. aut sub cespide condi ! 



CICINDELA. 



BY VINCENT BOURNE. 



Sub sepe exiguura est, nee raro in margine ripse, 

Reptile, quod lucet nocte, dieque latet. 
Vermis habet speciem, sed habet de lumine nomcn 

At prisca a fama non liquet, unde micet. 
Plerique a Cauda credunt procedere lumen ; 

Nee desunt, credunt qui rutilare caput. 
Nam superas stellas quGe nox accendit, et illi 

Parcam cadem lucem dat, moduloque parem, 
Forsitan hoc prudens voluit Natura caveri, 

Ne pede quis dure reptile contereret. 
Exiguam, in tenebris ne gressum offenderet uUus, 

Prtetendi voluit forsitan ilia facem. 
Sive usum hunc Natura parens, seu maluit ilium, 

fiaud frustra accensa est lux, radiique dati. 
Ponite vos fastus, humiles nee spernite, magni ; 

Quando habet et minimum reptile, quod niteat. 



(224) 
I THE GLOW-WORM. 

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. 



I. 

BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream 

A worm is known to stray, 
That shows by night a lucid beam, 
Which disappears by day. 
II. 
Disputes have been, and still prevail, 

From whence his rays proceed ; 
Some give that honour to his tail, 
And others to his head. 
III. 
But this is sure — the hand of might, 

That kindles up the skies, 
Gives him a modicum of light 
Proportion'd to Iiis size. 
IV. 
Perhaps indulgent P-^ature meant. 

By such a lamp bestow'd, 
To bid the traveler, as he went, 
Be careful where he trod ; 
V. 
Nor crush a worm, v/hose useful light 

Might serve, however small, 
So show a stumbling stone by night, 
And save him from a fall. 
VI. 
Whate'er she meant, this trutli divine 

Is legible and plain, 
'Tis pow'r almighty bids him shine, 
Nor bids him shine in vain. 



CORNICULA. 225 

VII 

Ye proud and wealthy, let tliis theme 

Teach humbler thoughts to you, 
Since such a reptile has its gem, 

And boasts its splendour too. 



CORNICULA. 



BY VINCENT BOURNE. 



NIGRAS inter aves avis est, quao plurima turres, 

Antiquas cedes, celsaque Fana colit. 
Nil tam sublime est, quod non audace volatu, 

Aeriis spernens inferiora, petit. 
Quo nemo ascendat, cui non vertigo cerebrum 

Corripiat, certe hunc seligit ilia locum. 
Quo vix a terra tu suspicis absque tremore, 

Ilia metu expers incolumisque sedet. 
Lamina delubri supra fastigia, ventus 

Qua cceli spiret de regione, docet ; 
Hanc ea pros reliquis mavult, securi pericli, 

Nee curat, nedum cogitat, unde cadet. 
Res inde humanus, sed summa per otia, spectat, 

Et nihil ad sese, quas videt, esse videt. 
Concursus spectat, plateaque negotia in omni, 

Omnia pro nugis at sapienter habet. 
Clamores, quas infra audit, si forsitan audit, 

Pro rebus nihili negligit, et crocitat. 
llle tibi invideat, felix Cornicula, pennas. 

Qui sic humanis rebusse velit 



(226) 
II. THE JACKDAW. 

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. 



I. 

THERE is a bird who by his coat, 
And by the hoarseness of his note, 

Might be suppos'd a crow ; 
A great frequenter of the church, 
Where bishop-like he finds a perch, 

And dormitory too. 

II. 
Above the steeple shines a plate, 
That turns and turns to indicate 

From what point blows the weather ; 
Look up — ^your brains begin to swim, 
'Tis in the clouds — ^that pleases him. 

He chooses it the rather. 
III. 
Fond of the speculative height, 
Thither he wings his airy flight, 

And thence securely sees 
The bustle of the raree show, 
That occupy manldnd below, 

Secure and at his ease. 
IV. 
You think, no doubt, he sits and mnsea 
On future broken bones and bruises, 

If he should chance to fall. 
No : not a single thought like that 
Employs his philosophick pate, 

Or troubles it at all 



AD GRILLUM. 227 

V. 

He sees, that this great roundabout, 
The world, with all its motley rout, 

Church, arin}^, physick, law. 
Its customs, and its businesses, 
Is no concern at all of his, 

And says — what says he ? — Caw. 
VI. 
Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 
Much of the vanities of men; 

And, sick of having seen 'em, 
Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
For such a pair of wings as tliine, 

And such a head between 'em. 



AD GRILLUM 



ANACREONTICUM. 



BY VINCENT BOURNS. 



O QUI mesB culinse 
Argutulus choraules, 
Et hospes es canorus, 
Quacunquo commorerU 
Fehcitatis omen ; 
Jucundiore cantu 
Siquando mo salutes, 
Et ipse te rependam, 
Et ipso, qua valebo, 
Remunerabo rausa. 



228 AD GRILLUM. 

II. 

Diceris innocensque 
Et gratus inquilinus ; 
Nee victitans rapinis, 
Ut sorices voraces, 
Muresve curiosi, 
Furumque delicatum 
Vulgus domesticorum 5 
Sed tutus in camini 
Recessibus, quiete 
Contentus et calore. 

III. 
Beatior Cicada, 
Quffi te referre forma, 
Qua? voce te videtur ; 
Et saltitans per herbas, 
Unius, baud secundas, 
iEstatis est chorista ; 
Tu carmen integratum, 
Reponis ad Decembrem, 
Laetus per universum 
Incontinenter annum. 

IV. 
Te nulla lux relinquit, 
Te nulla nox revisit, 
Non musicEB vacantem, 
Curisve non solutum : 
Quin amplies canendo, 
Quin amplies fruendo, 
^tatulam, vel omni, 
Quam nos homunciones 
Absumimus querendo, 
£tate longiorem. 



(229) 



III. THE CRICKET. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. 



1. 

ijITTLE inmate, full of inirth, 
Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Wheresoe'er be thine abode, 
Always harl)inger of good, 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song more soft and sweet • 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a strain as I can give. 

II. 
Thus thy praise shall be express'd, 
Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 
While the rat is on the scout, 
And the mouse with curious snout. 
With what vermin else infest 
Ev'ry disli, and spoil the best ; 
Frisking thus before the fire, 
Thou hast all thine heart's desire. 

III. 
Though in voice and shape they be 
Form'd as if akin to thee, 
Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 
Theirs is but a summer's song. 
Thine endures the winter long. 
Unimpair'd, and shrill and clear, 
Melody throushout the year. 
Vol. I ^20 



SIMILE AGIT IN SIMILE 
IV. 

Neit'ner night, nor dawn of day, 
Puts a period to thy play ; 
Sing then — and extend thy span 
Far beyond the date of man. 
Wretched man whose years are 
In repining discontent, 
Lives not, aged though he be, 
Half a span compar'd with thee. 



SIMILE AGIT IN SIMILE 



BY VINCENT BOURNE. 

CRISTATUS, pictisque ad Thaida Psittacus alis, 

Missus ab Eoo munus amante venit. 
Ancilhs raandat primam formare loquelam, 

ArchididascalioB dat sibi Thais opus. 
Psittace, ait Thais, fingitque sonantia moUe 

Basia, quse docilis molle refingit avis. 
Jam captat, jam dimidiat tyrunculis ; et jam 

Integral auditos articulatque sonos. 
Psittace mi pulcher pulchelle. hera dicit alumno; 

Psittace mi pulcher, reddit alumnus herae. 
Jamque canit, ridet, deciesque asgrotat in hora, 

Et vocat ancillas nomine quamque suo. 
Multaque scurratur mendax, et multa jocatur, 

Et lepido populum detinet augurio. 
Nunc tremulum illudet fratrem, qui suspicit, et Pol * 

Carnalls, quisquis te docet, inquit, homo est ; 
Argutse nunc stridet anus argutulus instar ; 

Rcspicit, et nebulo es, quisquis es, inquit anus. 
Quando fait melior tyro, meliorve magistra ! 

Quaudo duo ingenijs tarn eoiere pares ' 
Ardu:i (liscenti nulla est, res nulla docenli , 

Ardua ; cum dcceat fcemina, discat avis. 



(23i) 
IV. THE PARROT. 

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOIWO. 



I. 

IN painted plumes superbly dress'd, 
A native of the gorgeous east, 

By many a billow toss'd ; 
Poll gains at length the British shore, 
Part of the captain's precious store, 
A present to his toast. 
11. 
Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd 
To teach him now and then a word, 

As Poll can master it j 
But 'tis her own important charge, 
To qualify him more at large. 
And make him quite a wit. 
III. 
Sweet Poll ! his doating mistress crie0, 
Sweet Poll 1 the mimick bird replies ; 

And calls aloud for sack. 
She next instructs him in the kiss ; 
'Tis now a little one, like Miss, 
And now a hearty smack. 
IV. 
At first he aims at what he hears ; 
And list'ning close with both his ears. 

Just catches at the sound; 
Cut soon articulates aloud, 
Much to the amusement of the crowd. 
And stuns the neighbours round. 



232 TRANSLATION, &c. 

V. 
A querulous old woman's voice 
His hum'rous talent next employs, 

He scolds, and gives the lie. 
And now he sings, and now is sick. 
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick| 

Poor Poll is like to die ! 
VI. 
Belinda and her bird ! 'tis rare 
To meet with such a well-match'd pair, 

The language and the tone, 
Each character in ev'ry part 
Sustain'd with so much grace and art, 

And both in unison. 

VII. 
When children first begin to spell, 
And stammer out a syllable, 

We think them tedious creatures ; 
But difficulties soon abate. 
When birds are to be taught to prate, 

And women are the teachers. 



TRANSLATION 



PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA. 



I. 

MERCATOR, vigiles oculosut faHere possit, 
Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes ; 

Lene sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, 
Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chloe. 



HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 233 

II. 

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Buphelia crines, 

Cum dixit mea lux, lieus, cane, sume lyram. 
Namque lyram juxta positam cum carmine vidit 

Suave quideni carmen dulcisonamque lyram 
III. 
Fila lyrse voceraque paro, suspiria surgunt, 

Et miscent numeris muvmura msBsta mejs 
Dumque tuce memoro laudes, Euphelia, formse, 

Tola anima interea pendet ab ore Chloes. 
IV. 
Subrubet ilia pudore, et contrahit altera frontem 

Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo ; 
Atque Cupidinea, dixit Dea cincta corona, 

Heu ! fallendi artcra quam didicere parum. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY 



JOHN GILPIN ; 

Showing how he went further than he intended^ and, 
came safe home again. 



JOHN GILPIN was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A trainband captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpm s spouse said to her dear, 
Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet wo 
No holy-day have seen. 
20* 



234 HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after v/e. 

He soon replied, I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she, my dearest dear. 

Therefore it shall be done. 

1 am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good friend the calender 

Will lend his horse to go. 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, that's well said, 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear. 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find. 
That though on pleasure she was bent. 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought. 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay*d, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 



HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 235 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad j 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapsido were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again ; 

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin, 
When turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time 

Although it griev'd him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind. 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

" The wine is left behind !" 

Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, 

My leathern bolt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword, 

When I do exercise. 

Now mistress Gilpin, (careful soul !) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that she lov'd. 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt ho drew, 
And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 



236 HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat 

Pie manfully did throw. 

Now see him moimted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones^ 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 

So fair and softly, John he cried, 

But John he cried in vain, 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp 'd the mane with both his handSy 

And eke mth all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
Like streamer long and gay, 

Till, loop and button failing both, 
At last it flew away. 



HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 237 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles lie had slinig ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children screara'd, 

Up flew the windov/s all ; 
And ev'ry soul cried out, well done ! 

As loud as he could bawl 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound ! 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open tlirew. 

And now as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter'd at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle brac'd ; 
For all might sec the bottle-necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These merry gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 



238 HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wond'ring much 

To see how he did ride. 

Stop, stop, John Gilpin — Here's the house— 

They all at once did cry ; 
The dinner waits, and we are tir'd ; 

Said Gilpin — So am I ! 

But yet his horse was net a whit 

Inclin'd to tarry there ; 
For why .-* — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware, 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings rae to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will. 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amaz'd to sec 

His neighbour in such trim. 
Laid do^^Ti his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

What news ? what news ? your tidings tell j 
Tell me you must and shall — 

Say why bareheaded you are come, 
Or why you come at all ? 



HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 239 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And lov'd a timely joke ; 
And thus uiito the calender 

In merry ^uise lie spoke : 

I came becaiise your horse would come ; 

And, if I well forbode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 

They are upon the road. 

The calender right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in : 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear^ 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit, 
My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case. 

Said John, it is my wedding day, 

And all the world would stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And T should dine at Ware. 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

I am in haste to dine ; 
*Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You sliall fro hack for jninc 



240 HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ' 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a brayino; ass 

Did sing most loud and clear. 

Whereat his horse did snort; as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why — they were too big. 

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said. 

That drove them to the Bell, 
This shall be yours, when you bring back j 

My husband safe and well. ' 

i 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet, I | 

John coming back amain : 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 



I By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing what he meant. 
And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 
And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went postboy at his heels, 

The postboy's horse right glad to miss 
The lurab'ring of the wheels. 



HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 241 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, 

They rais'd the hue and cry : — 

Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman! 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that pass'd that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The toll-men thinking as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he did get up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the king, 

And Gilpin long live he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 

Vol. I. 



!! 

I (242) 



AN EPISTLE 



AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY 



IN FRANCE. 



Madam, 

A STRANGER-'S purpose in these lays 
Is to congratulate, and not to praise. 
To give the creature the Creator's duo 
Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid 
Praise is the medium of alcnavish trade, 
A coin by Craft for Folly's use design'd, 
Spurious, and only current with the blind. 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown * 
No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode. 
Who found not thorns and briers in the road. 
The World may dance along the flow'ry plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread. 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread j 
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But he, who knew what human hearts would prOTOy 
How slow to learn the dictates of his love, 
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still, 



AN EPISTLE TO A LADY. 243 

In pity to the souls his grace design'd 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, 
And said, " Go, spend them in the vale of tears." 
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 
O salutary streams that murmur there ! 
These flowing from the fount of grace above, 
Those breath 'd from lips of everlasting love. 
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; 
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys } 
An envious world will interpose its frown, 
To mar delights superiour to its own : 
And many a pang, experienc'd still within 
Remind tTiem of their hated inmate, sin ; 
But ills of ev'ry shade and ev'ry name, 
Transform 'd to blessings, miss their cruel aimj 
And ev'ry moment's cahn, that soothes the brcastj 
Is giv'n in earnest of eternal rest 

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast 
Far from the flock, and in a bound»!ess waste • 
No shepherds' tents within thy view appear, 
But the chief Shepherd even there is near ; 
Thy tender sorrows, and thy plaintive strain 
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; 
Thy tears all issue from a source divine, 
And ev'ry drop bespeaks a Saviour thine — 
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, 
And drought on all the drooping herbs around. 



( 244 ) 



REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 



UNWIN, I should but ill repay 

The Idndness of a friend, 
Whose wortli deserves as warm a lay, 

As ever friendship penn'd, 
Thy name omitted in a page 
That would reclaim a vicious age. 

II. 
A union form'd, as mine with thee, 

Not rashly, nor in sport, 
May be as fervent in degree, 

And faithful in its sort, 
And may as ricn m comfort prove, 
As that of true fraternal love. 

III. 
The bud mserted m the rind. 

The bud of peach or rose, 
Adorns, though difFring in its kind, 

The stock whereon it grows, 
With flow'r as sweet, or fruit as fair, 
As if produc 'd by Nature there. 

IV. 
Not rich, I render what I may, 

I seize thy name in haste. 
And place it in this first essay. 

Lest this should prove the last. 
'Tis where it should be — in a plan, 
That holds in view the good of man. 



TO THE REV. W. C. UNWIN. 245 

V. 
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame. 

Should be the poet's heart j 
Affection lights a brighter flame 

Than ever blaz'd by art. 
No muses on these lines attend, 
I sink the poet in the friend. 



END OF VOL. I. 



POEMS, 



WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

TOOETHER WITH HIS 

POSTHUMOUS POETRY, 

AND 

A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 
BY JOHN JOHNSON, LL. D. 

THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 

NEW EDITION. 

BOSTON 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO., 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1849. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The history of the following production, is briefly 
this : A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem 
of that kind from the author, and gave him the Sofa 
for a subject. He obeyed ; and, having much leisure, 
connected another subject with it ; and pursuing the 
train of thought to which Iiis situation and turn of 
mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of tho 
trifle which he at first intended, a serious aflair — a 
Volume ' 

In the poem on the subject of Education, he would 
be very sorry to stand suspected of having aimed his 
censure at any particular school. His objections are 
such as naturally apply themselves to schools in ge- 
neral. If there were not, as for the most part there is, 
wilful neglect in those who manage them, and an 
omission even of such discipline as they are su.scepti' 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

ble of, tlie objgcls are yet too numerous for minute 
attention : and the aching hearts of ten thousand pa- 
rents, mourning under th" bittcres,, of all disappoint- 
ments, attest the truth of the allegation. His quarrel, 
therefore, is with the mischief at large, and not with 
any particular instance of it. 



CONTENTS. 



The Task, in Six books. Page 

Book I. Tha Sofa, ..... 7 

II. The Time-piece, - ... 29 

III. The Garden, .... 52 

IV. The Winter Evening, - - - 76 

V. The Winter Morning Walk, - - US 

VI. The Winter Walk at noon, - - 123 
Epistle to Joseph Hill, Esq. .... 155 
Tirocinium : or, a Review of Schools, - - ib. 
To the Reverend Mr. Newton, - - - 180 
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture out of 

Norfolk, 181 

Friendship, 185 

The Moralizer corrected, - - . . 191 

Catharina, 193 

The Faitliful Bird, 195 

The Needless Alarm, 196 

Boadicea, 200 

Heroism, ------- 202 

On a mischievous Bull, which the Owner of 

him sold at the Author's instance, - - 205 
Annus Memorablis, 1789. Written in comme- 
moration of his majesty's happy's reco- 
very, 206 

Hymn for the use of the Sunday School at 01- 

ney, .... - 208 



f CONTENTS. 

Page 
Stanzas subjoined to a Eill of Mortality for the 

year 1787, - - - - 209 

The same for 1788, 211 

The same for 1789, 213 

The same for 1790, 214 

The same for 1792, ^ - - - - 216 

The same for 1793, - - . - - - 218 

Inscription for the tomb of Mr. Hamilton, - 220 

Epitaph on a Hare, - - - - - • ib. 

Epitaphium Alterum, ----- 222 

Account of the Author's treatment of Hares, • 223 



THE TASK. 



THE SOFA. 



ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK. 

Historical deduction of seats, from the Stool to the Sofa — A 
Schoolboy's ramble — A walk in the country — The scene described 
— Rural sounds as well as sights delightful — Another walk — 
Mistake concerning the charms of solitude corrected — Colonnades 
commended — Alcove, and the view from it — The M-ilderness — 
The grove — The tJircsher — The necessity and benefit of exercise 
— The works of nature superiour to, and in some instances inimi- 
table by, art — The wearisomeness of what is commonly called a 
life of pleasure — Change of scene sometimes expedient — A com- 
mon desciibed, and tlie character of crazy Kate introduced — 
Gipsies — The blessings of civilized life — That state most favour- 
able to virtue — The South Sea islanders compassionated, but 
chiefly Omai — His present state of mind supposed — Civilized 
life friendly to virtue, but not groat cities — Great cities, and Lon- 
don in particular, allowed their due praise, but censured — F^te 
champetre — Tlie book concludes with a reflection on the fatal 
effects of dissipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. 



I SING the Sofa. I, who lately sang 

Truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe 

The solemn chords, and, with a trembling hand, 

Escap'd with pain from that advent'rous flight, 

Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; 5 

The theme, though humble, yet august and proud 

Th' occasion — for the fair commands the song. 

Time was, when clothing, sumptuous or for use, 
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. 
As yet black breeches were not ; satin smooth, 10 

Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile : 
The hardy chief, upon the rugged rock 
Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank 
* See Poems, Vol. I. 



8 THE TASK. 

Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, 

Fearless of wrong, rcpos'd his weary strength. 15 

Those barb'rous ages past, succeeded next 

Tiie birthday of Invention ; weak at first, 

Dull in design, und clurnsy to pevfo.nn. 

Joint-stools were then created ; on three legs 

Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm 20 

A massy blab, in fashion square or round. 

On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, 

And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms : 

And such in ancient halls and mansions drear 

May still be seen ; but perforated sore, 25 

And drillV] in holes, the solid oak is found, 

By worms voracious eating through and through. 

At length a generation more refin'd 
Improv'd the simple plan ; made three legs four, 
Gave them a twisted form vermicular, 30 

And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stufTd, 
Induc'd a splendid cover, green and blue. 
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought 
And woven close, or needlework sublime. 
There might ye see the piony spread wide, 35 

The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, 
Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes. 
And parrots wdth twin cherries in their beak. 

Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright, 
"With nature's varnisli ; severd into stripes, 40 

That interlac'd each other, these supplied 
Of texture firm a lattice-work, that brac'd 
The new machine, and it became a chair. 
But restless was the chair ; the back erect 
Distress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease ; 45 

The slipp'ry seat betrayed the sliding part 
That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down, 
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. 
These for the rich ; the rest, whom Fate had plac'd 
In modest mediocrity, content 50 

With base materials, sat on well-tann'd hides, 



irrrrrrrrr-5-' 



THE SOFA. 9 

Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, 
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, 
Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd, 
If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd 55 
Than the firm oak, of which the frame was form'd. 
No want of timber then was felt or fear'd 
In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood 
Pond'rous and fix'd by its own massy weight. 
But elbows still were wanting ; these, some say, 60 
An alderman of Cripplegate contrived ; 
And some ascribe th' invention to a priest 
Burly, and big, and studious of his ease. 
But rude at first, and not with easy slope 
Receding wide, they press'd against the ribs, 65 

And bruis'd the side ; and, elevated high. 
Taught the rais'd shoulders to invade the ears. 
Long time elaps'd or e'er our rugged sires 
Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in. 
And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 70 

'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. 
Ingenious Fancy, never better pleas'd 
Than when employ'd t' accommodate the fair, 
Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devis'd 
The soft settee ; one elbow at each end, 75 

And in the midst an elbow it receiv'd. 
United, yet divided, twain at once. 
So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; 
And so two citizens, who take the air. 
Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one. 80 

But relaxation of the languid frame. 
By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs. 
Was bliss reserv'd for happier days. So slow 
The growth of what is excellent ; so hard 
T' attain perfection in this nether world. 85 

Thus first Necessity invented stools. 
Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, 
And Luxury th' accomplish'd Sofa last. 



10 THE TASK. 

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hir'd to watch the sick 
Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he, 90 

Who quits the coach-box at a midnight hour, 
To sleep within the carriage more secure, 
His legs depending at the open door. 
Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, 
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head ; 95 

And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep 
Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead ; 
Nor his, who quits the box at midnight hour 
To slumber in the carriage more secure ; 
Nor sleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk ; 100 

Nor 3^et the dozlngs of the clerk, are sweet, 
Compar'd with the repose the Sofa yields. 

O may I live exempted (while 1 live 
Guiltless of pamper'd appetite obscene) 
From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe 105 

Of libertine Excess. The Sofa suits 
The gouty limb, 'tis true : but gouty limb, 
Though on a Sofa, may I never feel : 
For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes 
Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, 110 
And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
Of thorny boughs ; have lov'd the rural walk 
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, 
E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds 
T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; 115 

And still remember, not without regret. 
Of hours, that sorrow since has much endear'd, 
How oft, my slice of pocket store consum'd, 
Still hung'ring, pennyless, and far from homOi 
I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, 120 

Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss 
The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. 
Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite 
Disdains not ; nor the palate, undeprav'd 
By culinary arts, unsav'ry deems. 125 



TFIE SOFA. 11 

No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs 
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil 
Incurring short fatigue ; and, though our years, 
As life declines, speed rapidly away, 130 

And not a year but pilfers as he goes 
Some youtlaful grace, that age would gladly keep ; 
A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees 
Their length and colour from the locks they spare ; 
The elastick spring of an unwearied foot, 135 

That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence ; 
That play of lungs, inhaling and again 
Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes 
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me. 
Mine have not pilfer 'd /et ; nor yet impair 'd 140 

My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that sooth'd 
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find 
Still soothing, and of pow'r to charm me still. 
And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 145 

Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, 
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth 
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire — 
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
Thou know'st ray praise of nature most sincere, 150 
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up 
To serve occa.sions of poetic pomp, 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 155 

The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 
While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene 
Thence, with what pleasure have we just discern'd 
The distant plough slow m.oving, and beside ICO 

His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track, 
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! 
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 



12 THE TASK. 

Ot spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o er, 

Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 166 

Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 

Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, 

That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; 

While far beyond, and overthwart the stream. 

That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 170 

The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 

Displaying on its varied side the grace 

Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, 

Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 

Just undulates upon the list'ning ear, 175 

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 

Scenes must be beautiful, which daily view'd 

Please daily, and whose novelty survives 

Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years. 

Praise justly due to those that I describe. 180 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds. 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 185 

The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, 
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast. 
And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 190 

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 195 

Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. 
But animated nature sweeter still, 
To sooth and satisfy the human ear. 
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 200 
The livelong night ; nor these alone, whose notes 



THE SOFA. 13 

Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain, 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 

In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, 

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 205 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me, 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 

Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 

And only there, please highly for their sake. 

Peace to the artist, w^hose ingenious thought 210 
Devis'd the weatherhouse, that useful toy ! 
Fearless of humid air and gath'ring rains, 
Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself ! 
More delicat* his tim'rous mate retires. 
When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, 215 
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 

Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, i 

The task of new discov'ries falls on me. ' 

At such a season, and with such a charge. 
Once went I forth ; and found, till then unknown, 220 
A cottage, whither oft we since repair : 
'Tis perch'd upon the green hill top, but close 
Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, 
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen 
Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset 225 

With foliage of such dark redundant growth, 
I call'd the low-roof 'd lodge the peasant's nest. 
And, hidden as it is, and far remote 
From such unplea^ing sounds as haunt the ear 
In village or in town, the bay of curs 230 

Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, 
And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd. 
Oft have I wish'd the peaceful coveret mine. 
Here, I have said, at least I should possess 
The poet's treasure. Silence, and indulge 235 

The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. 
Vain thought ! the dweller in that still retreat 
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. 
Its elevated site forbids the wretch 
Vol. TI. 2 



14 THE TASK. 

To drink sweet waters of the crystal well ; 240 

He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, 

And, heavy laden, brings his bev'rage home, 

Far fetch'd and little worth ; nor seldom waits, 

Dependent on the baker's punctual call. 

To hear his creaking panniers at the door, 245 

Angry, and sad, and his last crust consum'd. 

So farewell envy of the peasant's nest ! 

If solitude make scant the means of life, 

Society for me ! — thou seeming sweet, 

Be still a pleasing object in my view j 250 

My visit still, but never mine abode. 
Not distant far, a length of colonnade 

Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, 

Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. 

Our fathers knew the value of a screen 256 

From sultry suns : and, in their shaded walks 

And long protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon 

The gloom and coolness of declining day. 

We bear our shades about us ; self-dcpriv'd 

Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, 260 

And range an Indian waste without a tree. 

Thanks to Benevolus* — he spares me yet 

These chestnuts rang'd in corresponding lines j 

And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves 

The obsolete prolixity of shade. 265 

Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) 
A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge. 
We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip 
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. 
Hence, ankle deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, 270 
We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step 
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
Hais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil. 
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, 
Disfigures Earth : and, plotting in the dark, 275 

* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Under- 
wood. 



THE SOFA. 15 

Toils much to earn a monumental pile 
That may record the mischief ho has done. 

The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove 
That crowns it ! yet not all its pride secures 
The grand retreat from injuries impress"d 280 

By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself 
Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few, 285 

Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd 
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, 
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye ; 
And, posted on this speculative height. 
Exults in its command. The sheepfold here 290 

Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek 
The middle field ; but, scatter'd by degrees, 
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
There from the sunburnt hay field homeward creeps 
The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, 296 
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; 
The boorish driver leaning o"er his team 
Vocif rous, and impatient of delay. 
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 300 

Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth, 
Alike, yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks 
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine. 
Within the twilight of their distant shades ; 
There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 305 

Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. 
No tree in all the grove but has its charms. 
Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some. 
And of a wannish gray ; the willow such, 
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, 310 

And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm ; 
Of deeper green the elm ;. and deeper still, 
Lc^rd of the woods, the long surviving oak. 



16 THE TASK. 

Some glossy Icav'd, and shining in the sun, 
The maple and the beech of oily nuts 31i 

Prolifick, and the lime at dewy eve 
Diffusing odours : nor unnoted pass 
The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
Have chang'd the woods, in scarlet honours bright. 
O'er those, but, far beyond (a spacious map 321 

Of hill and valley interpos'd between) 
The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd land, 
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, 
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 325 

Hence the declivity is sharp and short. 
And such the reascent ; between them weeps 
A little naiad her impov'rish'd urn 
All summer long, which winter fills again. 
The folded gates would bar my progress now, 330 

But that the lord* of this enclos'd demesne, 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits me to a share ; the guiltless eyo 
Commits no UTong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun ? 335 
By short transition we have lost liis glare, 
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. 
Yo fallen avenues ! once more I mourn 
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice 
That yet a remnant of your race survives. 340 

How airy and how light the graceful arch. 
Yet awful as the consecrated roof 
Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath 
The checker'd earth seems restless as a flood 
Brush'd by the wind So sportive is the light 345 
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, 
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
And dark 'ning, and enlight'ning, as the leaves 
Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot. 
And now, with nerves new brac'd and spirits cheer'd, 
* See the foregoing note. 



THE SOFA. 17 

We tread the wilderness, whose well-roll'd walks, 351 

With curvature of slow and easy sweep — 

Deception innocent — give ample space 

To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next ; 

Between tlie upright shafts of whose tall elms 355 

We may discern the thresher at his task. 

Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, 

That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls 

Full on the destin'd ear. Wide flies the chaff, 

The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 360 

Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. 

Come hither, ye that press your beds of down, 

And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread 

Before he eats it.— 'Tis the primal curse, 

But soften'd into mercy ; made the pledge 365 

Of cheerful days and nights without a groan. 

By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
Constant rotation of th' unwearied wheel 
That Nature rides upon, maintains her health. 
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads 370 

An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves : 
Its own revolvency upholds the World, 
Winds from all quarters agitate the air. 
And fit the limpid element for use. 
Else noxious ; oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, 375 
All feel the fresh'ning impulse, and are cleans'd 
By restless undulation : e'en the oak 
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm ; 
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
Th' impression of the blast with proud disdain, 380 
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
He held the thunder • but the monarch owes 
His firm stability to what he scorns, 
More fix'd belcw, the more disturbed above. 
The law, by which all creatures else are bound, 385 
Binds man, the Lord of all. Himself derives 
No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 
2* 



18 THE TASK. 

The sedentary stretch their lazy length 

When Custom bids, but no refreshment find, 390 

For none they need : the languid eye, the cheek 

Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 

And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, 

Reproach their owner with that love of rest, 

To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. 395 

Not such the alert and active. Measure life 

By its true worth, the comforts it afibrds, 

And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 

Good health, and its associate in the most. 

Good temper ; spirits prompt to undertake, 400 

And not soon spent, though in an arduous task j 

The pow'rs of fancy and strong thought are theirs; 

E'en age itself seems privileg'd in them 

With clear exemption from its own defects. 

A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 405 

The vet'ran shows, and, gracing a gray beard 

With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 

Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 

Like a coy maiden. Ease, when courted most; 
Furthest retires — an idol, at whose shrine 410 

Who oft'nest sacrifice are favour'd least. 
The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, 
Is nature's dictate. Strange ! there should be found, 
Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, 
Renounce the odours of the open field 415 

For the unscented fictions of the loom ; 
Who, satisfied with only pencill'd scenes, 
Prefer to the performance of a God 
Th' inferiour wonders of an artist's hand ! 
Lovely indeed the mimick works of Art ; 420 

But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire. 
None more admires the painter's magick skill ; 
Who shows me that which I shall never see. 
Conveys a distant, country into mine, 
And throws Italian light on English walls . 425 

But imitative strokes can do no more 



THE SOFA. 19 

Than please the eye — sweet Nature's ev'ry sense 

The air salubrious of her lofty hills, 

The cheering fragance of her dewy vales, 

And musick of her woods — no works of man 430 

May rival these, these all bespeak a pow'r 

Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 

Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 

'Tis free to all — 'tis ev'ry day renew'd ; 

Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 435 

He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long 

In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey 

To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank 

And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, 

Escapes at last to liberty and light : 440 

His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue ; 

His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires ; 

He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy, 

And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze. 

He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd 445 

A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. 

Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd 

With acrid salts ; his very heart athirst, 

To gaze at Nature in her green array. 

Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 450 

With visions prompted by intense desire ; 

Fair fields appear below, such as he left 

Far distant, such as he would die to find — 

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. 

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns ; 455 
The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, 
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, 
And mar, the face of Beauty, when no cause 
For such immeasurable wo appears. 
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair 460 

Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. 
It is the constant revolution, stale 
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys. 
That pails and satiates, and makes languid life 



20 THE TASK. 

A pedler's pack, that bows the bearer down. 405 

Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart 

Recoils froin its own choice — at the full feast 

Is famish'd — finds no musick in the song, 

No smartness in the jest ; and wonders why. 

Yet thousands still desire to journey on, 470 

Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. 

The paralytick, who can hold her cards, 

But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand, 

To deal and shufHe, to divide and sort 

Her mingled suits and sequences ; and sits, 475 

Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad 

And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. 

Others are dragg'd into a crowded room 

Between supporters ; and, once seated, sit, 

Through downright inability to rise, 480 

Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. 

These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these 

Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he 

That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. 

They love it, and yet loathe it ; fear to die, 485 

Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. 

Then wherefore not renounce them .'' No — the dread, 

The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds 

Reflection and remorse, the fear of shamo, 

And their invet'rate habits, all forbid. 490 

Whom call wo gay ^ That honour has been long 
The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
The innocent are gay — the lark is gay, 
That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, 
Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams 495 

Of day spring overshoot his humble nest. 
The peasant too, a witness of his song, 
Himself a songster, is as gay as he. 

But save me from the gayety of those, 
Whose headachs nail them to a noonday bed ; 500 

And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes 
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs 



THE SOFA. 21 

For property stripp'd off by cruel chance ; 
From gayety, that fills the bones with pain, 
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with wo. 505 

The earth was made so various, that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change. 
And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd. 
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen 
Till half their beauties fade : the weary sight 510 
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides oiF, 
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. 
Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale. 
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, 
Delight us ; happy to renounce awhile, 515 

Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, 
That such short absence may endear it more. 
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, 
That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts 
Above the reach of man. His hoary head, 520 

Conspicuous many a league, the mariner 
Bound homeward, and in hope already there. 
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist 
A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, 
And at his feet the baffled billows die. 525 

The common, overgrown with fern, and rough 
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, 
And dang'rous to the touch, has yet its bloom, 
And decks itself with ornaments of gold, 
Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf 530 

Smells fresh, and, rich in odorifrous herbs 
And fimgous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
With luxury of unexpected sweets. 

There often wanders one, whom better days 
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd 535 

With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound, 
A serving maid was she, and fell in love 
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves 
To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep 540 



22 THE TASK. 

At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, 

Delusive most where warmest wishes are, 

Would oft anticipate his glad return, 

And dream of transports she was not to know. 

She heard the doleful tidings of his death — 545 

And never smil'd again ! and now she roams 

The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day, 

And there, unless when charity forbids, 

The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, 

Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 550 

More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 

A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. 

She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 

And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food, 554 

Though press'd with hunger oft, or coraelier clothes. 

Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is craz'd. 

I see a column of slow rising smoke 
O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild. 
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat 
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 

Between two poles upon a stick transverse, 
Receives the morsel — flesh obscene of dog. 
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd 
From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race ! 
They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge, 565 

Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd 
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide 
Their flutt'ring rags, and shows a tawny skin, 
The vellum of the pedigree they claim. 
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more 570 

To conjure clean away the gold they touch, 
Conveying worthless dross into its place ; 
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal 
Strange ! that a creature rational, and cast 
In human mould, should brutalize by choice 575 

His nature ; and, though capable of arts, 
By which the world might profit, and himself 
Self-bajiish'd from society, prefer 



THE SOFA. 33 

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil ! 

Yet even these, though feigning yickness oft 580 

They swathe the forehead, drag the hmping limb, 

And vex their flesh with artificial sores, 

Can change their w^hine into a mirthful note, 

When safe occasion offers ; and with dance, 

And musick of the bladder and the bag, 585 

Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. 

Such health and gayety of heart enjoy 

The houseless rovers of the sylvan world ; 

And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring much. 

Need other physick none to heal th' effects 590 

Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd 
By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, 
Where man by nature fierce, has laid aside 
His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn. 
The manners and the arts of civil life. 590 

His wants indeed are many ; but supply 
Is obvious, plac'd within the easy reach 
Of temp'rate wishes and industrious hands. 
Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil ; 600 

Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, 
And terrible to sight, as when she springs, 
(If e'er she spring spontaneous.) in remote 
And barb 'reus climes, where violence prevails. 
And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, 605 

By culture tam'd, by liberty refresh'd, 
And all her fruits by radiant truth matur'd. 
War and the chase engross the savage whole ; 
War follow'd for revenge or to supplant 
The envied tenants of some happier spot: 610 

The chase for sustenance, precarious trust 
His hard condition with severe constraint 
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth 
Of wisdom, proves a school, in which he learns 
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, 61b 

Mean self- attachment, and scarce auffht beside. 



24 THE TASK. 

Thus fare the shiv'ring natives of the north, 

And thus the rangers of the western world, 

Where it advances far into the deep, 

Tow'rds the autarctick. E'en the favour 'd isles 620 

So lately found, although the constant sun 

Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, 

Can boast but little virtue ; and inert 

Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain 

In manners — victims of luxurious ease. G25 

These therefore I can pity, plac'd remote 

From all that science traces, art invents, 

Or inspiration teaches ; and enclos'd 

In boundless oceans never to be pass'd 

By navigators uninform'd as they, 630 

Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again , 

But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, 

Thee, gentle savage !* whom no love of thee 

Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, 

Or else vain glory, prompted us to draw 635 

Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here 

With what superiour skill we can abuse 

The gifts of Providence, and squander life. 

The dream is past ; and thou hast found again 

Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, 640 

And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thoo 

found 
Their former charms .-" And, having seen our state, 
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp 
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, 
And heard our musick ; are thy simple friends, 64J 
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights, 
As dear to thee as once .'' And have thy joys 
Lost nothing by comparison with ours ? 
Rude as thou art, (for we return'd thee rude 
And ignorant, except of outward show,) 650 

I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart 
And spiritless, as never to regret 
* Omai. 



THE SOFA. 25 

Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. 
Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, 
And asking of the surge, that bathes thy foot, 655 
If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. 
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, 
A patriot's for his country : thou art sad 
At thought of her forlorn and abject state, 
From which no pow'r of thine can raise her up. 660 
Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, 
Perhaps errs little, when she paints thee thus. 
She tells me too, that duly ev'ry morn 
Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye 
Exploring far and wide the wat'ry waste 665 

For sight of ship from England. Ev'ry speck 
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale 
With conflict of contending hopes and fears. 
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, 
And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepar'd 670 

To dream all night of what the day denied. 
Alas ! expect it not. We found no bait 
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, 
Disinterested good, is not our trade. 
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought j 675 

And must be brib'd to compass Earth again 
By other hopes and richer fruits than yours. 

But though true worth and virtue in the mild 
And genial soil of cultivated life 

Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, 680 
Yet not in cities oft : in proud, and gay. 
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow. 
As to a common and most noisome sewer, 
The dregs and feculence of every land. 
In cities, foul example on most minds 685 

Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds, 
In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth, and lust, 
And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. 
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, 
Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 690 

Vol. II. 3 



26 THE TASK. 

By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 

Beyond th' achievement of successful flight, 

I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 

In which they flourish most ; where in the beams 

Of warm encouragement, and m the eye 695 

Of publick note, they reach their perfect size. 

Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 

The fairest capital of all the world. 

By riot and incontinence the worst. 

There touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 700 

A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 

All her reflected features. Bacon there 

Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 

And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 

Nor does the chisel occupy alone 705 

The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much ; 

Each province of her art her equal care. 

With nice incision of her guided steel 

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 

So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, 710 

The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 

With which she gazes at yon burning disk 

Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? 

In London. Where her implements exact, 715 

With which she calculates, computes, and scans, 

All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 

Measures an atom, and now girds a world -" 

In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 

So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 720 

As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 

Increasing London '' Babylon of old 

Not more the glory of the Earth, than she, 

A more accomplish 'd world's chief glory now. 

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, 7^ 
That so much beauty would do well to purge ; 
And show this queen of cities, that so fair. 
May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise 



THE SOFA. 27 

It is not seemly, nor of good report, 
That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 730 

T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
That she is rigid in denouncing death 
On pett^ robbers, and indulges life, 
And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, 
To peculators of the public gold : 735 

That thieves at home must hang ; but he tliat puts 
Into his overgorg'd and bloated purse 
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
That, through profane and infidel contempt 740 

Of holy writ, she has presum'd t' annul 
And abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
The total ordinance and will of God ; 
Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
And centring all authority in modes 745 

And customs of her own, till sabbath rites 
Have dwindled into unrespected forms, 
And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorc'd. 

God made the country, and man made the town. 
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 750 
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
That life holds out to all, should most abound 
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves ? 
Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 755 

But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
Your element, there only can ye shine ; 
There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
Our groves were planted to console at noon 760 

The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve 
The moon-beam, sliding softly in between 
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, 
Birds warbling all the musick. We can spare 
The splendour of your lamps ; they but eclipse 765 
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 



28 THE TASK. 

Our more harmonious notes : the thrush departs 

Scar'd, and tli' ofFended nightingale is mute. 

There is a publick mischief in your mirth ; 

It plagues youT country. Folly such as yours, 770 

Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 

Has made, what enemies could ne'er have donCi 

Our arch of empire, steadfast but for jou, 

A mutilated structure soon to fall. 



THE TASK. 



THE TIME-PIECE. 



ARGUMENT OF TEIE SECOND BOOK. 

Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book — Peace 
among tlie nations recommended on the ground of their common 
fellowship in sorrow — Prodigies enumerated — Sicilian earth- 
(}uakes — Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin — 
God the agent in them— The philosophy that stops at secondary 
causes reproved — Our own late miscarriages accounted for — 
Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau— But the 
pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation — The Reve- 
rend Advertiser of engraved sermons — Petit-maitre parson — The 
good preacher— Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb— Story- 
tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved — Apostrophe to popular 
applause — Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with — 
Sum of the whole matter— Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement 
on the lait}'— Their folly and extravagance— The mischiefs of 
profusion— Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, 
as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the univer- 
sities. 



O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 5 

My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax, 10 

3* 



30 THE TASK. 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not coloured like his own ; and having pow'r 
T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as a lawful prey. 15 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 20 

And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart, 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 25 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush, 
And hang his head, to think himself a man .'' 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30 

And tremble when I v/ake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
J. had much rather be myself the slave, 35 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad? 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 40 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then. 
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 45 

Of all your empire : that, where Britain's pow'r 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 
Sure there is need of social intercourse, 



THE TIME-PIECE. 31 

Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, 
Between the nations, in a world that seems 50 

To toll the death-bell of its own decease, 
And by the voice of all its elements 
To preach the gen'ral doom.* When were the winds 
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy .-* 
When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap 55 

Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry ? 
Fires from beneath, and meteorst from above, 
Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, 
Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and th* old 
A.nd crazy Earth has had her shaking fits 60 

More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. 
Is it a time to wrangle, when the props 
And pillars of our planet seem to fail, 
And Nature with a dim and sickly eyef 
To wait the close of all .■* But grant her end fiB 

Wore distant, and that prophecy demands 
A longer respite, unaccomplish'd yet ; 
iBtill they are frowning signals, and bespeak 
Displeasure in his breast wlio smites the Earth 
Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. ^ 

And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve 
And stand expos'd by common peccancy 
To what no few have felt, there should be peace, 
And brethren in calamity should love. 

Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 95 

Lie scatter'd, where the shapely columns stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show, 
Suffer a syncope and solemn pause ; 80 

While God performs upon the trembling stage 
Of his own works his dreadful part alone. 
How does the earth receive him ? with what signs 

* Alluding- to the calamities in Jamaica, 
t August, 18, 1783. 

t Alluding to the fog that covered both Europe and Asia 
during the whole summer of 1783. 



32 THE TASK. 

Of gratulation and delight her king ? 

Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, 85 

Her sweetest flow'rs, her aromatick gums, 

Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads ? 

She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb, 

Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 

And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. 90 

The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, 

For he has touch'd them. From th' extremest point 

Of elevation down into the abyss 

His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. 

The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, 95 

The rivers die into offensive pools, 

And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a gross 

And mortal nuisance into all the air. 

What solid was, by transformation strange. 

Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and rooted earth, 100 

Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, 

Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl 

Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense 

The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs 

And agonies of human and of brute 105 

Multitudes, fugitive on ev'ry side. 

And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene 

Migrates uplifted : and, with all its soil 

Alighting in far distant fields, finds out 

A new possessor, and survives the change. 110 

Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought 

To an enormous and o'erbearing height, 

Not by a migiity wind, but by that voice 

Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore 

Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 115 

Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge, 

Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng 

That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, 

Look'd to the sea for safety ? They are gone, 

Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — 121 

A prince with half his people ' Ancient tow'rs, 



THE TIME-PIECE. 33 

And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes 

Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume 

Life in the unproductive shades of death, 

Fall prone : the pale inhabitants come forth, 125 

And, happy in their unforeseen release 

From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy 

The terrours of the day that sets them free. 

Who, then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast 

Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret, 130 

That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, 

Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake ? 

Such evil Sin hath wrought ; and such a flame 

Kindled in Heav'n, that it burns down to Earth, 

And in the furious inquest that it makes 135 

On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. 

The very elements, though each be meant 

The minister of man, to serve his wants, 

Conspire against him. With his breath he draws 

A plague into his blood ; and cannot use 140 

Life's necessary means, but he must die. 

Storms rise t' o'erwhelm him ; or if stormy winds 

Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, 

And, needing none assistance of the storm, 

Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. 145 

The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, 

Or make his house his grave : nor so content, 

Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood. 

And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 

What then ! — were they the wicked above all, 150 

And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle 

Mov'd not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff, 

The sport of every wave ? No ; none are clear. 

And none than we more guilty. But, where aH 

Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts 155 

Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark : 

May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 

The more malignant. If he spar'd not them. 



34 THE TASK. 

Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, 

Far guiltier England, lest lie spare not thee I 160 

Happy the man, who sees a God eniploy'd 
In all the good and ill that checker life I 
Resolving all events, with their effects 
And manifold results, into tlic will 
And arbitration wise of the Supremo. 165 

Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns ; (since from the least 
Tlie greatest oft originate ;) could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 170 

Then God might bo surpris'd, and unforeseen 
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
Tliis truth Philosophy, though eagle-cy'd 
In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 175 

And, having found his instrument, forgets, 
Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims 
His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
That live an atheist life ; involves the Heavens 180 
In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
Kindle a fiery bile upon the skin, 
And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. 
He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 185 

Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, 
And taints the golden ear. He springs his minOB, 
And desolates a nation at a blast. 
Forth steps the spruce Philosopher, and tells 
Of homogeneal and discordant springs, 190 

And principles ; of causes how they work 
By necessary laws their sure effects 
Of action and reaction : he has found 
The source of the disease that nature feels, 
And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 195 



THE TIME-PIECE. 35 

Thou fool ? will thy discov'rj of the cause 
Suspend th' ofTect, or heal it ? Has not God 
Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
And did he not of old employ his means 
To drown it ? What is his creation less, 200 

Than a capacious reservoir of means, 
Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
Go, dress thine eyes with oyo-salve ; ask of Him, 
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
A.nd learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 205 

England, with all thy faults, I love thee still — 
My country ! and, while yet a nook is left. 
Where English minds and manners may be found, 
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime 
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 210 

With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies. 
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France 
With all her vines : nor for Ausonia's groves 
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 215 

To shake thy senate, and from lieights sublime 
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : 
But I can feel tiiy fortunes, and partake 
Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart * 220 
As any thund'rcr there. And I can feel 
Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain 
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
How in the name of soldiership and sense, 225 

Should England prosper, wlicn such things, as smooth 
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er 
With odours, and as profligate as sweet ; 
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, 
And love when they should fight : when such as those 
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 231 

Of her magnificent and awful cause P 
Time was when it was nraise and boast enough 



36 THE TASK. 

In every clime, and travel where we might, 

That we were born her children. Praise enough 235 

To fill th' ambition of a private man 

That Chatham's language was his mother-tongue, 

And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 

Farewell those honours, and farewell with them 

The hope of such hereafter ! They have fall'n 240 

Each in his field of glory ; one in arms, 

And one in council — Wolfe upon the lap 

Of smiling Victory that moment won, 

And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame ! 

They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still 245 

Consulting England's happiness at home, 

Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown. 

If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, 

Put so^ much of his heart into his act, 

That his example had a magnet's force, 250 

And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd. 

Those suns are set. O rise some other such? 

Or all that we have left is empty talk 

Of old achievements and despair of new. 

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float 255 
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck 
With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, 
That no rude savour maritime invade 
The nose of nice nobility ! Breathe soft, 
Ye clarionets ; and softer still, ye flutes ; 260 

That winds and waters, lull'd by magick sounds, 
May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. 
True, we have lost an empire — let it pass. 
True, we may thank the perfidy of France, 
That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, 265 
With all the cunning of an envious shrew. 
And let that pass — 'twas but a trick of state—- 
A brave man knows no malice, but at once 
Aorgets in peace the injuries of war, 
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 270 

And sharn'd as we have been, to tli" very beard 



THE TIME-PIEoE. 37 

Brav d and defied, and in our own sea prov'd 

Too weak for those decisive blows that once 

Ensur'd us mast'ry there, we yet retain 

Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 275 

At least superiour jockeyship, and claim 

The honours of the turf as all our own ! 

Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, 

And show the shame ye might conceal at home, 

In foreign eyes ' — ^be grooms and win the plate, 280 

Where once your nobler fathers won a crown ' — 

'Tis gen'rous to communicate your skill 

To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd : 

And under such preceptors who can fail ? 

There is a pleasure in poetick pains, 285 

Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
Th' expedients and inventions multiform, 
To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms, 
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win — 
T' arrest the fleeting images, that fill 290 

The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, 
And force them sit, till he has pencil'd off 
A faithful likeness of the forms he views ; 
Then to dispose his copies with such art. 
That each may find its most propitious light, 29& 

And shine by situation, hardly less 
Than by the labour and the skill it cost j 
Are occupations of the poet's mind 
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought. 
With such address from themes of sad import, 300 
That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
He feels the anxieties of life denied 
Their wonted entertainment ; all retire. 
Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not such, 
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 305 

Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 
Aware of nothing arduous in a task 
They never undertook, they little note 
His dangers or escapes, and haply find 

Vol. 11 4 



33 THE TASK. 

Their least amusement where he found the most 310 

But is amusement all ? Studious of song, 

And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, 

I would not trifle merely, though the world 

Be loudest in their praise who do no more. 

Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay .■' 315 

It may correct a foible, ma}^ chastise 

The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, 

Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch ; 

But where are its sublimer trophies found .'' 

What vice has it subdued ? whose heart reclaim'd 320 

By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform.'' 

Alas ! Leviathan is not so tam'd : 

Laugh'd at, he laughs again ; and stricken hard, 

Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, 

That fear no discipline of human hands. 325 

The pulpit, therefore — (and I name it fill'd 
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
The pulpit — (when the sat'rist has at last. 
Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, 330 

Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — 
I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
Of its legitimate peculiar pow'rs) 

Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall stand, 
The most important and effectual guard, 335 

Support, and ornament, of Virtue's cause. 
There stands the messenger of truth ; there stands 
The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine, 
His oflice sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 340 

Its thunders : and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart. 
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 345 

Of heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms 
Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule 



THE TIME-PIECE. 39 

Of lioly discipline, to glorious war 
The sacramental host oi God's elect : 349 

Are all such teachers ? — would to Heav'n all were ! 
But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedg'd between 
Two empiricks he stands, and with swoln cheeks 
Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
Than all invective is his bold harangue, 
While through that publick organ of report 355 

He hails the clergy ; and, defying shame, 
Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
He teaches those to read whom schools dismiss'd, 
And colleges, untaught : sells accent, tone, 
And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r 360 

Th' adagio and andante it demands. 
He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into modern use ; transforms old prini 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. 365 

Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware ? 
O, name it not in Gath ! — it cannot be, 
That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. 
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, 
Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 370 

Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church ! 
I venerate the man, whose heart is warm, 
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, 
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 

That he is honest in the sacred cause. 375 

To such I render more than mere respect. 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves. 
But loose in morals and in manners vain, 
[n conversation frivolous, in dress 
Extreme at once rapacious and profuse ; 380 

Frequent in park with lady at his side, 
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes ; 
But rare at home, and never at his books. 
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card ; 
Constant at routs, familiar with a round 385 



40 THE TASK 

Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; 

Ambitious of preferment for its gold, 

And well prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth. 

By infidelity and love of world. 

To make God's v/ork a sinecure ; a slave 390 

To his own pleasures and his patron's pride ; 

From such apostles, O ye mitred heads. 

Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 

On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. 

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, 395 

Were he on Earth, would hear, approve, and owD) 
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
His master-strokes, and draw from his design. 
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain, 400 

And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste, 
And natural in gesture ; much impress'd 
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, 
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds 
May feel it too ; affectionate in look, 405 

And tender in address, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
Behold the picture ! — Is it like .'' — Like whom ? 
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
And then skip down again ; pronounce a text ; 410 
Cry — hem ; and, reading what they never wrote 
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, 
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene ! 

In man or woman, but far most in man, 
And most of all in man that ministers 416 

And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
All aflfectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ; 
Object of my implacable disgust. 
What ! — will a man play tricks — will he indulge 
A silly fond conceit of his fair form, 420 

And just proportion, fashionable mien, 
And pretty face, in presence of his God ? 
Or will he seek to dazzle me with t?(.pes, 



THE TIME-PIECE. 41 

As with the diamond on his lily hand, 
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, 425 

When I am hungry for the bread of life ? 
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames 
His noble office, and, instead of truth. 
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. 
Therefore avaunt all attitude and stare, 430 

And start theatrick, practis'd at the glass ! 
I seek divine simplicity in him 
Who handles things divine ; and all besides. 
Though learn'd with labour, and though much admir'd 
By curious eyes and judgments ill-inform'd, 435 

To me is odious as the nasal twang 
Heard at conventicle where worthy men, 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid. 
Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, 440 
That task perform'd, relapse into themselves ; 
And, having spoken wisely, at the close 
Grow wanton, and give proof to ev'ry eye, 
Whoe'er was edify 'd, themselves were not ! 
Forth comes the pocket-mirror. First we stroke 445 
An eyebrow ; next compose a straggling lock , 
Then with an air most gracefully perform'd, 
Fall back into our seat, extend an arm. 
And lay it at its ease with gentle care. 
With handkerchief in hand depending low ; 450 

The better hand more busy gives the nose 
Its bergamot, or aids tli' indebted eye 
With op'ra glass, to watch the moving scene, 
And recognise the slow retiring fair. — 
Now^ this is fulsome ; and offends me more 45o 

Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind 
May be indiff'rent to her house of clay, 
And slight the hovel as beneath her care ; 
But how a body so fantastic, trim, 460 

4* 



42 THE TASK. 

And quaint, in its deportment and attire, 

Can lodge a heav'nly mind — demands a doubt. 

He that negotiates between God and man, 
As God's ambassador, the grand concerns 
Of judgment and of mercy, should beware 465 

Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful 
To court a grin, when you should woo a soul : 
To break a jest, when pity would inspire 
Pathetick exhortation ; and t' address 
The skittish fancy w:th facetious tales, 470 

When sent with God's commission to the heart ! 
So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip 
Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, 
And I consent you take it for your text. 
Tour only one, till sides and benches fail. 475 

No : he was serious in a serious cause, 
And understood too well the weighty terms, 
That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop 
To conquer those by jocular exploits. 
Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. 480 

O Popular Applause ! what heart of man 
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms ? 
The wisest and the best feel urgent need 
Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales ; 
But swell'd into a gust — who, then, alas ! 485 

With all his canvass set, and inexpert. 
And therefore heedless, can withstand thy pow'r ? 
Praise from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald 
Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean 
And craving Poverty, and in the bow 490 

Respectful of the smutch'd artificer. 
Is oft too welcome and may much disturb 
The bias of the purpose. How much more, 
Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite. 
In language soft as Adoration breathes ? 495 

Ah, spare your idol, think him human still. 
Charms he may have, but he has frailties too ! 
Dote not too much nor spoil what ye admire. 



THE TIME-PIECE. 43 

All truth is from the sempiternal source 
Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome, 500 
Drew from the stream below. More favour'd, we 
Drink when we choose it, at the fountain head. 
To them it flow'd much mingled and defil'd 
With hurtful errour, prejudice, and dreams 
Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, 505 

But falsely. Sages after sages strove 
In vain to filter off a crystal draught 
Pure from the lees, v/hich often more enhanc'd 
The thirst than slak'd it, and not seldom bred 
Intoxication and delirium wild. 510 

In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth 
And spring-time of the world ; ask'd, Whence is man ? 
Why form'd at all ? and wherefore as he is ? 
Where must he find his maker ? with what rites 
Adore him ? Will he hear, accept, and bless .'' 515 

Or does he sit regardless of his works ? 
Has man within him an immortal seed .' 
Or does the tomb take all ? If he survive 
His ashes, where ? and in what weal or wo ? 
Knots worthy of solution, which alone 520 

A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague 
And all at random, fabulous and dark. 
Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life 
Defective and unsanction'd, prov'd too weak 
To bind the roving appetite, and lead 525 

Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 
'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts. 
Explains all mysteries, except her own, 
And so illuminates the path of life 
That fools discover it, and stray no more. 530 

Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, 
My man of morals, nurtur'd in the shades 
Of Academus — is this false or true .'' 
Is Christ the abler teacher or the schools 
If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn 535 

To Athens, or to Rome, for wisdom shore 



44 THE TASK. 

Of man's ocr'.asions, when in him reside 

Grace, knowledge, comfort — an unfathom'd store i" 

How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text, 

Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd ! 540 

Men that, if now alive, would sit content 

And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, 

Preach it who might. Sucii was their love of truth, 

Th.eir thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. 

And thus it is. — The pastor, either vain 5'U 

By nature, or by flatt'ry made so, taught 
To gaze at his own splendour, and t' exalt 
Absurdly, not his office, but himself; 
Or unenlighten'd and too proud to learn ; 
Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach J 550 

Perverting often by the stress of lewd 
And loose example, whom he should instruct ; 
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace, 
The noblest function, and discredits much 
The brightest truths that man has ever seen. 555 

For ghostly counsel ; if it either fall 
Below the exigence, or be not back'd 
With show of love, at least with hopeful proof 
Of some sincerity on the giver's part ; 
Or be dishonour'd in th' exteriour form 560 

And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks 
As move derision, or by foppish airs 
And histrionick mumm'ry that let down 
The pulpit to the level of the stage ; 
Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. 56! 

The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught 
While prejudice in men of stronger minds 
Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. 
A relaxation of religion's hold 

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart 570 

Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd 
The laity run Avild. But do they now ? 
Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd. 
As nations, ignorant of God, contrive 



THE TIME-PIECE. 45 

A wooden one : so we, no longer taught 575 

By monitors, that mother church supplies, 
Now make our own. Posterity will ask, 
(If e'er posterity see verse of mine,) 
Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, 
What was a monitor in George's days .' 580 

My very gentle reader, yet unborn, 
Of whom I needs must augur better things, 
Since Heav'n would sure grow weary of a world 
Productive only of a race like ours, 
A monitor is wood — plank shaven thin. 585 

We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd 
And neatly fitted, it compresses hard 
The prominent and most unsightly bones, 
And binds the shoulder flat. We prove its use 
Sov'reign and most effectual to secure 590 

A form, not now gymnastick as of yore, 
From rickets, and distortion, else our lot. 
But thus admonish'd, we can walk erect — 
One proof at least of manhood ! while the friend 
Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. 595 

Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore. 
And by caprice as multiplied as his. 
Just please us while the fashion is at full, 
But change with ev'ry moon. The sycophant, 
Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date ; 600 

Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye ; 
Finds one ill made, another obsolete. 
This fits not nicely, that is ill conceiv'd ; 
And, making prize of all that he condemns, 
With our expenditure defrays his own. 605 

Variety's the very spice of life. 
That gives it all its flavour. We have run 
Through ev'ry change, that Fancy at the loom 
Exhausted, has had genius to supply ; 
And studious of mutation still, discard 610 

A real elegance, a little us'd. 
For monstrous novelty and strange disguise 



46 THE TASK. 

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys 

And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, 

And keeps our larder lean : puts out our fires ; 615 

And introduces hunger, frost, and wo, 

Where peace and hospitality might reign. 

What man that lives, and that knows how to live, 

Would fail t' exhibit at the publick shows 

A form as splendid as the proudest there, 620 

Though appetite raise outcries at the cost ? 

A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough, 

With reasonable forecast and despatch, 

T' ensure a side-box station at half price. 

You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, 625 

His daily fare as delicate. Alas ! 

He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems 

With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet ! 

The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws 

With magick wand. So potent is the spell, 630 

That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring, 

Unless by Heav'n's peculiar grace, escape. 

There we grow early gray, but never wise ; 

There form connexions, but acquire no friend ; 

Solicit pleasure hopeless of success ; 635 

Waste youth in occupations only fit 

For second childhood, and devote old age 

To sports, which only cliildhood could excuse. 

There, they are happiest who dissemble best 

Their weariness ; and they the most polite 640 

Who squander time and treasure with a smile. 

Though at their own destruction. She that asks 

He dear five hundred friends, contemns them all. 

And hates their coming. They (what can they less ?) 

Make just reprisals ; and with cringe and shrug, 645 \ 

And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. | 

All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, 

Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, 

And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, 

To her, who, frugal only that her thrift 650 



THE TII^,IE-?IECE. 17 

May feed excesses she can ill alFord, 

Is hackney 'd home unlackey'd : who, In haste 

Alighting, turns the key in her own door, 

And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, 

Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. 655 

Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wiveS; 

On Fortune's velvet altar off'ring up 

Tlieir last poor pittance — Fortune, most severe 

Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far 

Than all that held their routs in Juno's Heav'n. — 660 

So fare we in this prison-house, the World ; 

And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see 

So many maniacks dancing in their chains. 

They gaze upon the links, that hold them fast, 

With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, CG5 

Then shake them in despair, and dance again ' 

Now basket up the family of plagues, 
That Vt'aste our vitals ; peculation, sale 
Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds 
By forgery, by subterfuge of law, 670 

By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen 
As the necessities their authors feel : 
Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat 
At the right door. Profusion is the sire. 
Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base 675 

In. character, has litter'd all the land. 
And bred, within the mem'ry of no few, 
A priesthood, such as Baal's was of old, 
A people, such as never was till now. 
It is a Imngry vice : — it eats up all 680 

That gives society its beauty, strength, 
Convenience, security, and use : 
Vlakcs men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd 
And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws 
Can seize the slippery prey : unties the knot 685 

Of union, and converts the sacred band 
That holds mankind together, to a scourge. 
Profusion deluging a state with lusts 



48 THE TASK. 

Of grossest nature and of worst effects, 

Prepares it for its ruin : hardens, blinds, 690 

And warps, the consciences of publick men, 

Till they can laugh at Virtue ; mock the fools 

That trust them ; and in th' end disclose a face, 

That would have shock'd Credulity herself. 

Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse — 695 

Since all alike are selfish, why not they ? 

This does Profusion, and th' accursed cause 

Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. 

In colleges and halls in ancient days, 
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth, 700 

Were precious and inculcated with care, 
There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, 
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, 
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, 
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 705 

His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
Play'd on his lips ; and in his speech was heard 
Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love 
The occupation dearest to his heart 
Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke 710 
The head of modest and ingenious worth, 
That blush'd at his own praise : and press the youth 
Close to his side that pleas'd him. Learning grew 
Beneath his care, a thriving vig'rous plant j 
The mind was well informed, the passions held 715 
Subordinate, and diligence was choice. 
If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must, 
That one among so many overleap'd 
The limits of control, his gentle eye 
Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke ; 720 

His frown was full of terrour, and his voice 
Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe, 
As left him not, till penitence had won 
Lost favour back again, and clos'd the breach. 
But Discipline, a faithful servant long, 725 

Declin'd at length into the vale of years • 



THE TIME-PIECE 49 

A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye 
Was quenched in rheums of age ; his voice, unstrung, 
Grew tremulous, and mov'd derision more 
Than rev'rence, in perverse rebellious youth. 730 

So colleges and halls neglected much 
Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, 
O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. 
Then Study languished, Emulation slept, 
And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene 735 
Of solemn farce, where Ignorance in stilts, 
His cap well lin'd with logick not his own. 
With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part, 
Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. 
Then compromise had place, and scrutiny 740 

Became stone blind ; precedence went in trucft, 
And he was competent whose purse was so. 
A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; 
The curbs invented for the mulish mouth 
Of headstrong youth were broken ; bars and bolts 745 
Grew rusty by disuse ; and massy gates 
Forgot their office, op'ning with a touch ; 
Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, 
The tassel'd cap and the spruce band a jest, 
A mock'ry of the world ! What need of these 750 

For gamesters, jockeys, brothelers impure, 
Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oft'iier seen 
With belted waist and pointers at their heels. 
Than in the bounds of duty .'' What was learn 'd, 
If aught was learn'd in childliood, is forgot : 755 

And such expense, as pinches parents blue, 
And mortifies the lib'ral hand of love, 
Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 
And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 
That sits a stigma on his father's house, 760 

And cleaves through life inseparably close 
To him that wears it. What can after games 
Of riper joys, and commerce with the v/orld, 
Vol. II. 5 



50 THE TASK. 

The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon, 

Add to such erudition, thus acquired, 765 

Where science and where virtue are professed ? 

They may confirm his habits, rivet fast 

His folly, but to spoil him is a task 

That bids defiance to th' united powers 

Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. 770 

Now blame we most the nurselings or the nurse ? 

The children crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd, 

Through want of care ; or her, whose winking eye 

And slumb'ring oscitancy mars the brood ? 

The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, 775 

She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 

That it is dang'rous sporting with the world, 

With things so sacred as a nation's trust, } 

The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. 

All are not such. I had a brother once — 780 

Peace to the memory of a man of worth, 
A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears. 
When gay good-natured dresses her in smiles. 
He grac'd a college,* in which order yet 785 

Was sacred ; and was honour'd, lov'd, and wept 
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 
Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd 
With such ingredients of good sense, and taste 
Of what is excellent in man, they thirst 790 

With such a zeal to be v/hat they approve, 
That no restraints can circumscribe them more 
Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. 
Nor can example hurt them ; what they see 
Of vice ir others but enhancing more 795 

The charms of virtue in their just esteem. 
If such escape contagion, and emerge 
Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad, 
And give the world their talents and themselves, 
Bene't Coll. Cambridsre. 



TPIE TIME-PIECE. 51 

Small thank* to those whose negligence or sloth 800 
Expos'd their inexperience to the snare, 
And left tJxem to an undirected choice. 

See then the quiver broken and decay'd, 
In which are kept our arrows ! Rusting there 
In wild di'sorder, and unfit for use, 805 

What wonder, if discharg'd into the world, 
They shame their shooters with a random flight, 
Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine ! 
Well may the church wage unsuccessful war 
With such artill'ry arm'd. Vice parries wide 810 

Th' undreaded volley with a sword of straw, 
And stands an impudent and fearless mark. 

Have we not track'd the felon home, and found 
His birthplace and his dam .? The country mourns, 
Mourns because ev'ry plague that can infest 815 

Society, and that saps and worms the base 
Of th' edifice that policy has rais'd. 
Swarms in all quarters : meets the eye, the ear, 
And suffocates the breath at ev'ry turn. 
Profusion breeds them ; and the cause itself 820 

Of that calamitous mischief has been found : 
Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts 
Of the rob'd pedagogue ! Else let th' arraign'd 
Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. 
So when the JeAvish leader stretch'd his arm, 825 

And wav'd his rod divine, a race obscene, 
Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forln, 
Polluting Egypt : gardens, fields, and plains, 
Were cover'd with the pest ; the streets were fill'd ; 
The croaking nuisance lurk'd in ev'ry nook j 830 

Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scap'd ; 
And the land stank — so num'rous was the fry. 



THE TASK, 



THE GARDEN. 



ARGUftlENT OF THE THIRD BOOK. 

Self-recolleclion, and reproof — Address to domestick happiness- 
Some account of myself— The vanity of many of their pursuits, 
who are reputed wise — Justification of m.y censures — Divine il- 
lumination necessary to the most expert philosopher. — The ques- 
tion, What is truth ; answered by other questions — Domestick 
happiness addressed again — Few lovers of the country — My tame 
hare — Occu[)ations of a retired gentleman in his garden — Pruning 
— Framing— Greenhouse — Sov^ing of flower seeds — The country 
preferable to the town even in the winter — Reasons why it is 
deserted at that season — Ruinous effects of gaming and of ex- 
pensive improvement — Book concludes with an apostrophe to the 
metropolis. 



AS one, who long in thickets and in brakes 

Entangled, winds now this way and now that 

His devious course uncertain, seeking home; 

Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd 

And sore discomfited, from slough to slough 5 

Plunging, and half despairing of escape ; 

If chance at length he find a greensward smooth 

And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, 

He cherups brisk his ear-erecting steed. 

And winds his way with pleasure and with ease < 10 

So I, designing other themes, and call'd 

T' adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, 



THE GARDEN. 53 

To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, 

Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat 

Of academick fame, (hcwe'er deserv'd,) 15 

Long held, and scarcely discngag'd at last : 

But now v/ith pleasant pace a cleanlier road 

I mean to tread. I feel myself at large. 

Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil, 

If toil await me, or if dangers new. 20 

Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect 
Most part an empty ineffectual sound, 
What chance that I, to fame so little known, 
Nor conversant with men or manners much, 
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope 25 

Crack the satirick thong ^ 'Twere wiser far 
For me, enamour'd of scquestcr'd scenes. 
And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose 
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vino 
My languid limbs ; when summer sears the plains ; 30 
Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft 
And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air 
Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth ; 
There, undisturb'd by Folly, and appriz'd 
How great the danger of disturbing her, 35 

To muse in silence, or at least confine 
Remarks, that gall so many, to the few 
My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd 
Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault 
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 40 

Domestick happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise, that has surviv'd the fall ! 
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, 
Or tasting, long enjoy thee ! too infirm, 
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets 45 

Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect 
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup ; 
Thou art the nurse of Virtue — in thine arms 
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 
Heav'n-born, and destin'd to the skies again. 50 

5* 



64 THE TASK. 

Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador d, 

That reeling goddess, with the zoneless waist 

And wand'riiig eyes, still leaning on the arm 

Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support ; 

For thou art meek and constant, hating change, 56 

And finding in the calm of truth-tried love, 

Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. 

Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made 

Of honour, dignity, and fair renown ! 

Till prostitution elbows us aside 60 

In all our crowded streets ; and senates seem 

Conven'd for purposes of empire less 

Than to release the adult'ress from her bond. 

Th' adult'ress ! what a theme for angry verse ! 

What provocation to th' indignant heart, 65 

That feels for injur'd love ! but I disdain 

The nauseous task to paint her as she is. 

Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame ? 

No : — let her pass, and, charioted along 

In guilty splendour, shake the publick ways ; 70 

The frequency of crimes has wasli'd them white, 

And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, 

Whom matrons now of character unsmirch'd 

And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own. 

Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time, 75 

Not to be pass'd : and she that had renounced 

Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself 

By all that priz'd it ; not for prud'ry's sake 

But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 

'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, 60 

Desirous to return and not receiv'd • 

But was a wholesome rigour in the main. 

And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care 

That purity, whose loss was loss of all. 

Men too were nice in honour in those days, 85 

And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd, 

And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, 

Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold 



THE GARDEN. 55 

His country, or was slack when she requir'd 

His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, 90 

Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd 

The price of his default. But now — yes, now 

We are become so candid and so fair 

So lib'ral in construction, and so rich 

In christian charity, (good natur'd age !) 95 

That they are safe ; sinners of either sex 

Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, i^ oU 

bred, 
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough, 
To pass as readily through ev'ry door. 
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 100 

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet, 
May claim this merit still — that she admits 
The Vv^orth of what she raimicks, witii such care, 
And thus gives virtue indirect applause ; 
But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, 105 

Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts 
And specious semblances have lost their use. 

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd 
My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew 110 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There v/as I found by one who had himself 
Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 115 

He drew them forth, and heald, and bade me live. 
Since then, with few associates, in remote 
A^d silent woods I wander, far from those 
My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
With few associates, and not wishing more. 120 

Here much I ruminate, as much I may. 
With other views of men and manners now 
Than once, and others of a life to come • 
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray 
Each iu his own delusions ; they are lost 125 



L-- 



f>6 THE TASK. 

In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 

And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; 

And still they dream that they shall still succeed, 

And still are disappointed. Rings the world 

With the vain stir. I sum up half manxind 130 

And add two thirds of the remaining half, 

And find the total of their hopes and fears 

Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay, 

As if created only like the fly, 

That spreads his motley wings in th' e3^e of noon, 135 

To sport their season, and be seen no more. 

The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, 

And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. 

Some write a narrative of wars, and feats 

Of heroes little known ; and call the rant 140 

A history : describe the man, of whom 

His own coevals took but little note. 

And paint his person, character, and views, 

As they had known him from his mother's womb. 

They disentangle from the puzzled skein, 145 

In which obscurity has wrapp"d them up. 

The threads of politick and shrewd design. 

That ran through all his purposes, and charge 

His mind with meanings that he never had, 

Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore 150 

The solid earth, and from the strata there 

Extract a register, by which v.'e learn. 

That he who made it and reveal'd its date 

To Moses, was mistaken in its age. 

Some, more acute, and more industrious still, 155 

Contrive creation ; travel nature up 

To the sharp peak of her sublimest height. 

And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd, 

And planetary some ; what gave them first 

Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. ICO 

Great contest follows, and much learned dust 

Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth. 

And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend 



THE GARDEN. 57 

The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp 

In playing tricks with nature, giving laws 165 

To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 

Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums 

Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight 

Of oracles like these ^ Great pity, too, 

That having wielded th' elements, and built 170 

A thousand systems, each in his own way, 

They should go out in fume, and be forgot 

Ah ! what is life thus spent .'' and what are they 

But frantick, who thus spend it .' all for smoke — 

Eternity for bubbles, proves at last 175 

A senseless bargain. When I see such games 

Play'd by the creatures of a pow'r who swears 

That he will judge the Earth, and call the fool 

To a sharp reck'ning, that has liv'd in vain ; 

And when I weigh this seeming v/isdom well, 180 

And prove it in th' infallible result 

So hollow and so false — I feel my heart 

Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd. 

If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd. 

Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps, 185 

While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. 

Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, 

From reveries so airy, from the toil 

Of dropping buckets into empty wells. 

And growing old in drawing nothing up ! 190 

'Twere well, says one, sage, erudite, profound 
Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose. 
And overbuilt with most impending brows, 
'Twere well, could you permit the World to live 
As the world pleases : what's the World to you ? 195 
Much. I was uorn of woman, and drew milk 
As sweet as charity from human breasts. 
I think, articulate — I laugh and weep, 
And exercise all functions of a man. 
How then should I and any man that lives 200 

Be strangers to each other ? Pierce my vein, 



68 THE TASK. 

Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, 
And catechise it well : apply thy glass, 
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood 
CJongenial with thine own : and, if it be, S?J3 

What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose 
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, 
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which 
One common Maker bound me to the kind ? 
True ; I am no proficient, I confess, 210 

In a.rts like yours. I cannot call the swift 
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, 
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath ; 
I '•annot analyze the air, nor catch 
The parallax of yonder luminous point, 215 

That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss • 
Such powers I boast not — neither can I rest 
A silent witness of the headlong rage, 
Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, 
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. 220 

God never meant that man should scale the Heav'ns 
By strides of human wisdom. In his works, 
Though wondrous, he commands us in his word 
To seek him rather where his mercy shines. 
The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, 225 

Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy 
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
But never yet did philosophick tube, 
That brings the planets home into the eye 230 

Of observation, and discovers, else 
Net visible, his family of worlds, 
Discover him that rules them ; such a veil 
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, 
And dark in things divine. Full often too, 235 

Our wayward intellect, the more we learn 
Of nature, overlooks her author more ; 
From instrumental causes proud to draw 
Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake 



THE GARDEi\. 59 

But if his word once teach us — shoot a ray 240 

Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 
Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light ; 
Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'd 
In the pure fountain of eternal love. 
Has eyes indeed ; and viewing all she sees 245 

As meant to indicate a God to man, 
Gives hhn his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
Jjearning has borne such fruit in other days 
On all her branches : piety has found 
Friends in the friends of science, and true pray'r 250 
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage ! 
Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
And in his word sagacious. Such, too, thine, 
Milton, whose genius had angelick wings, 255 

And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 
Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment prais'd, 
And sound integrity, not more than fam'd 
For sanctity of manners undefii'd. 260 

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
Like the fair flow'r dishevell'd in the wind ; 
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream , 
The man we celebrate must find a tomb. 
And we that worship him, ignoble graves. 265 

Nothing is proof against the gen'ral curse 
Of vanity that seizes all below. 
The only amaranthine flow'r on earth 
Is virtue ; th' only lasting treasure, truth. 
But what is truth .'' 'Twas Pilate's question put 270 
To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. 
And wherefore .'' will not God impart his light 
To them that ask it ? — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
His glory, and his nature, to impart. 
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 275 

Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
What's that which brings contempt upon a book, 



60 THE TASK. 

And him who writes it, though the style be ncaty 

The method clear, and argument exact : 

That makes a minister in holy tnings 280 

The joy of many, and the dread of more. 

His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?— - 

That, while it gives us worth in God"s account, 

Depreciates and undoes us in our own ? 

What pearl is it, that rich mien cannot buy, 285 

That learning is too proud to gather up ; 

But which Cho poor, and the despis'd of all, 

Seek and obtain, and often find unsought ; 

Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 

O friendly to the best pursuits of man, 290 

Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace ! 
Domestick life in rural leisure pass'd ! 
Few know tliy value, and few taste thy sweets ; 
Though many boast thy favours, and affect 
To understand and choose thee for their own. 295 

But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, 
E'en as his first progenitor, and quits, 
Though plac'd in Paradise, (for earth has still, 
Some traces of her youthful beauty left) 
Substantial happiness for transient joy : 300 

Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse 
The growing seeds of v%^isdom ; that suggest 
By ev'ry pleasing image they present. 
Reflections such as meliorate the heart. 
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ; 305 

Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight 
To fill with riot, and defile witli blood. 
Should seme contagion, kind to the poor brutes 
We persecute, annihilate the tribes 
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, 310 

Fearless and wrapt away from all his cares j 
Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, 
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye ; 
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song. 
Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreats ; 315 



THE GARDEN. 61 

How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, 
Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, 
Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen, 
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town ! 
They love the country, and none else, who seek, 320 
For their own sake, its silence and its shade. 
Delig-hts which who would leave that liaa a heart 
Susceptible of pity, or a mind 
Cultur'd and capable of sober thought 
For all the savage din of the swift pack 325 

And clamours of the field .'' — Detested sport. 
That owes its pleasures to another's pain ; 
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued 
With eloquence, that agonies inspire, 330 

Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs .'' 
Vain tears, alas, and sighs that never find 
A corresponding tone in jovial souls ! 
Well — one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare 
Has never heard the sanguinary 3^ell 335 

Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. 
Innocent partner of my peaceful home. 
Whom ten long years' experience of my care 
Has made at last familiar : she has lost 
Much of her vigilnnt instinctive dread, 340 

Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. 
Yes — thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand 
That feeds thee ; thou mayst frolick on the floor 
At ev'ning, and at night retire secure 
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd , 345 

For I have gained thy confidence, have pledg'd 
All that is human in me, to protect 
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. 
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave ; 
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, 350 

I knew at least one hare that had a friend.* 

* See the note ai the end. 
Vol. H. 6 



62 THE TASK. 

How rarious liis employments, whom the world 
Calls idle ; and who justly in return 
Esteems that busy world an idler too ! 
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, 355 
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, 
And nature in her cultivated trim 
Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — 
Can he want occupation who has these ? 
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy ? 360 

Me therefore studious of laborious ease, 
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, 
Not waste it, and aware that human life 
Is but a loan to be repaid with use. 
When He shall call his debtors to account, 365 

From whom are all our blessings, business finds 
E'en here : while sedulous I seek t' improve, 
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, 
The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack 
Too oft, and much impeded in its work 370 

By causes not to be divulg'd in vain, 
To its just point — the service of mankind. 
He that attends to his interiour self. 
That has a heart, and keeps it ; has a mind 
That hungers and supplies it ; and who seeks 375 
A social, not a dissipated life, 
Has business ; feels himself engag'd t' acliieve 
No unimportant, though a silent task. 
A life all turbulence and noise may seem 
To him that leads it wise, and to be prais'd; 380 

But wisdom is a pearl with most success 
Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies 
He that is ever occupied in storms, 
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, 
Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. 385 

The morning finds the self-sequester'd man 
Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. 
Whether inclement seasons recommend 
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys 



THE GARDEN. 63 

With her ^yho shares his pleasures and his heart, 390 

Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph, 

Which neatly she prepares : then to his book 

Well chosen, and not sullenly perus'd 

In selfish silence, but imparted, oft 

As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, 395 

Or turn to nourishment, digested well. 

Or if the garden with its many cares, 

All well repaid, demand him, he attends 

The welcome call, conscious how much the hand 

Of lubbard Labour needs his watchful eye, 400 

Oft loit'ring lazily, if not o'erseen, 

Or misapplying his unskilful strength. 

Nor does he govern only, or direct. 

But much performs himself. No v/orks indeed. 

That ask robust, tough sinews bred to toil, 405 

Servile employ ; but such as may amuse. 

Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. 

Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees, 

That meet, no barren interval between. 

With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford j 410 

Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. 

These therefore are his own peculiar charge ; 

No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, 

None but his steel approach them. What is weak, 

Distemper'd, or has lost prolifick pow'rs, 415 

Impair 'd by age, his unrelenting hand 

Dooms to the knife .- nor does he spare the soft 

And succulent, that feeds its giant growth. 

But barren, at th' expense of neighb'ring twigs 

Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick 420 

With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left 

That may disgrace his art, or disappoint 

Large expectation, he disposes neat 

At measur'd distances, that air and sun, 

A.dmitted freely may afford their aid, 425* 

\nd ventilate and warm the swelling buds. 

Hence summer has her riches. Autumn henco, 



64 THE TASK. 

And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand 

With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own* 

Fair recompense of labour well bcstow'd, 430 

And wise precaution ; which a clime so rude 

Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child 

Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods 

Discov'ring much the temper of her sire. 

For oft, as if in her the stream of mild 435 

Maternal nature had revers'd its course, 

She brings her infants forth with many smiles ; 

But once deliver'd, kills them with a frown. 

He therefore, timely warn'd, himself supplies 

Her want of care, screening and keeping warm 440 

The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep 

His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft 

As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild, 

The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam, 

And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. 445 

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, 
So grateful to the palate, and when rare 
So coveted, else base and disesteem'd— 
Food for the vulgar merely — is an art 
That toiling ages have but just matur'd, 450 

And at this moment unessay'd in song. 
Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice, long sincCi 
Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard, 
And these the Grecian, hi ennobling strains ; 
And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye 455 

The solitary shilling. Pardon, then, 
Ye sage dispensers of poetick fame, 
Th' ambition of one meaner far, whose pow'rSj 
Presuming an attempt not less sublime, 
Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste 460 

Of critick appetite, no sordid fare, 
A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. 

The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, 

* Miraturque novos fructus et non sua poma. Virg, 



THE GARDEN. 65 

Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, 
And potent to resist the freezing blast : 465 

For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf 
Deciduous, when now November dark 
Checks vegetation in the torpid plant 
Expos'd to his cold breath, the task begins. 
Warily, therefore, and with prudent heed, 470 

He seeks a favour'd spot ; that where he builds 
Th' agglomerated pile his frame may front 
The sun's meridian disk, and at the back 
Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge 
Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread 475 
Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe 
Th' ascending damps; then leisurely impose, 
And lightly shaking it with agile hand 
From the full fork, the saturated straw. 
What longest binds the closest forms secure 480 

The shapely side, that as it rises takes. 
By just degrees, an overhanging breath, 
Shelt'ring the base with its projected eaves ; 
Th' uplifted frame, compact at ev'ry joint, 
And overlaid with clear translucent glass, 485 

He settles next upon the sloping mount, 
Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure 
From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. 
He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. 
Thrice must the voluble and restless Earth 490 

Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, 
Slow gath'ring in the midst, through the square mass 
Diffus'd, attain the surface ; when, behold ! 
A pestilent and most corrosive stream. 
Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, 495 

And fast condens'd upon the dewy sash, 
Asks egress ^ which obtain'd, the overcharg'd 
And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, 
[n volumes wheeling slow the vapour dank ; 
A.nd, purified, rejoices to have lost 500 

Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage 
6* 



ee THE TASK. 

Th' impatient fervour, which it first conceives 

Within its reeking bosom, threat'ning death 

To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. 

Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 505 

The way to glory by miscarriage foul. 

Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch 

Th" auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat, 

Friendly to vital motion, may afford 

Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. 510 

The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, 

And glossy, he commits to pots of size 

Diminutive, well fill'd with well-prepar'd 

And fruitful soil, that has been treasur'd long, 

And drank no moisture from the dripping clouds. 515 

These on the warm and genial earth that hides 

The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, 

He places lightly, and, as time subdues 

The rage of fermentation, plunges deep 

In the soft medium, till they stand immers'd. 520 

Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick 

And spreading wide their spongy lobes ; at first 

Pale, wan, and livid ; but assuming soon, 

If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, 

Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. 525 

Two leaves produc'd, two rough indented loaves, 

Cautious he pinches from the second stalk 

A pimple that portends a future sprout, 

And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed 

The branches, sturdy to his utmost wush ; 530 

Prolifick all, and harbingers of more. 

The crowded roots demand enlargement now. 

And transplantation in an ampler space. 

Indulg'd in what they wish, they soon supply 

Large foliage, overshadowing golden flow'rs, 535 

Blown on the csummit of the apparent fruit. 

These have their sexes ; and when summer shines 

The bee transports the fertilizing meal 

From flow'r to flow'r, and e'en the breathing ak 



THE GARDEN. 67 

Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. 540 

Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art 
Then acts in Nature's office, brings to pass 
The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. 

Grudge not, ye rich, (since Luxury must have 
His dainties, and the World's more num'rous half 545 
Lives by contriving delicates for you,) 
Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares 
The vigilance, the labour, and the skill, 
That day and night are exercis'd, and hang 
Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, 550 

That ye may garnish your profuse regales 
With summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns. 
Ten tliousand dangers lie in wait to thwart 
The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and steam, 
Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming 
flies, 555 

Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work 
Dire disappointment, that admits no cure, 
And which no care can obviate. It were long, 
Too long, to tell th' expedients and the shifts, 
Which he that fights a season so severe 560 

Devises while he guards his tender trust ; 
And oft at last in vain. The learn'd and wise 
Sarcastick would exclaim, and judge the song 
Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit 
Of too much labour, worthless when produc'd. 565 

Who loves a garden loves a green-house too 
Unconscious of a less propitious clime, 
There blooms exotick beauty, warm and snug, 
While the winds whistle and the snows descend 
The spiry myrtle with unwith'ring leaf 570 

Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast 
Of Portugal and western India there, 
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime 
Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, 
And seem to smile at what they need not fear, 575 
The amomum there with intcsrmingling flow'rs 



68 THE TASK. 

And cherries hangs her twisfs. Geranium boasts 

Her crimson honours ; and the spangled beau, 

Ficoides gUtters bright the winter long. 

All plants of ev'ry leaf, that can endure 580 

The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite, 

Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, 

Levantine regions these ; th' Azores send 

Their jessamine, her jessamine remote 

CafFraria : foreigners from many lands, 585 

They form one social shade, as if conven'd 

By magick summons of th' Orphean lyre. 

Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass 

But by a master's hand, disposing well 

The gay diversities of leaf and fiow'r, 690 

Must lend its aid t' illustrate all their charms, 

And dress the regular yet various scene. 

Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van 

The dwarfish, in the rear retir'd, but still 

Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. 595 

So once were rang'd the sons of ancient Rome, 

A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; 

And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, 

The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose 

Some note of Nature's musick from his lips, 600 

And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen 

\n ev'ry flash of his far -beaming eye. 

Nor taste alone and well-contriv'd display 

Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace 

Of their complete effect. Much yet remains 605 

Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, 

\nd more laborious ; cares on which depend 

Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor'd. 

The soil must be renew 'd, which often wash'd 

Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, 610 

And disappoints the roots ; the slender roots 

Close interwoven, where they meet the vase, 

Must smooth be shorn away ; the sapless branchy 

Must fly before the knife ; the wither'd leaf 



THE GARDEN. 69 

Must be detach"d, and wljcrc it strews the floor 615 
Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else 
Contagion and disseminating- death. 
Discharge but these kind offices, (and who 
Would spare, that loves them, offices like these ?) 
Well they repay the toil. The sight is pleased, 620 
The scent regal'd, each odoriferous leaf, 
Each op'ning blossom, freely breathes abroad 
Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. 

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, 
All healthful, are th' employs of rural life. 625 

Reiterated as the wheel of time 
Runs round ; still ending, and beginning stilL 
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll 
That softly swell'd and gayly dress'd appears 
A flow'ry island, from the dark green lawn 630 

Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due 
To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd 
And sorted hues, (each giving each relief, 
And by contrasted beauty shining more,) 635 

Is needful. Strength may wield the pond'rous spade. 
May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home ; 
But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, 
And most attractive, is the fair result 
Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. 640 

Without it all is Gothick as the scene 
To which th' insipid citizen resorts 
Near yonder heath ; where industry mispent. 
But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, 
Has made a Heav'n on Earth ; with suns and moons 
Of close-ramm'd stones has charg'd th' encumber'd 
soil, 646 

And fairly laid the zodiack in the dust. 
He, therefore, who would see his flow'rs dispos'd 
Sightly and in just order, ere he gives 
The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, 650 

Forecasts the future whole ; that, when the scene 



70 HE TASK. 

Shall break into its preconceiv'd display, 

Each for itself, and all as with one voice 

Conspiring, may attest his bright design, 

Nor even then dismissing as perform'd, 655 

His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. 

Few self-supported flow'rs endure the wind 

Uninjur'd, but expect the upholding aid 

Of the smooth shaven prop, and, neatly tied, 

Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, 660 

For int'rest sake, the living to the dead. 

Some clotlie the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd 

And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, 

Like virtue, thriving most where httle seen 

Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub 665 

With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch. 

Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon 

And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well 

The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. 

All hate the rank society of weeds, 670 

Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust 

Th' impov'rish'd earth ; an overbearing race, 

That, like the multitude made faction mad, 

Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. 

O blest seclusion from a jarring world, 675 

Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat 
Cannot indeed to guilty man restore 
Lost innocence, or cancel follies past ; 
But it has peace, and much secures the mind 
From all assaults of evil ; proving still 680 

A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease 
By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd 
Abroad, and desolating publick life. 
When fierce Temptation, seconded within 
By traitor Appetite, and arm'd with darts 685 

Tempcr'd in Hell, invades the throbbing breast, 
To combat may be glorious, and success 
Perhaps may crown us ; but to fly is safe. 
Had I the choice of sublunary good. 



THE GARDEN. 71 

What coUid 1 -wish, that I possess not here ? 690 

Health, leisure, means t' hnprove it, friendship, peace, 
No loose or wanton, though a wand'ring muse, 
And constant occupation without care. 
Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss j 
Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds, 695 

And profligate abusers of a world 
Created fair so much in vain for them, 
Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, i 

Allur'd by my report : but sure no less 1 

That self-condemn'd they must neglect the prize, 700 
And what they will not taste must yet approve. 
What we admire we praise ; and when we praise 
Advance it into notice, that, its worth 
Acknowledg'd, others may admire it too. 
I therefore recommend, though at the risk 705 

Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, 
The cause of piety and sacred truth. 
And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd 
Should best secure them, and promote them most; 
Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 710 

Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd. 
"fure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles. 
And chaste, though unconfin'd, whom I extol. 
Not as the prince in Shushan, when he call'd, 
Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, 715 

To grace the full pavilion. His design 
Was but to boast his own peculiar good, 
Which all might view with envy, none partake. 
My charmer is not mine alone ; my sweets, 
And she that sweetens all my bitters too, 720 

Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form 
And lineaments divine I trace a hand 
That errs not, and find raptures still renew'd, 
Ts free to all men — universal prize. 
Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 725 
Admirers, and be destin'd to divide 
^ith moaner objects e'en the few she finds ! 



72 THE TASK. 

Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves and flow'rs, 

She loses all her influence. Cities then 

Attract us, and neglected Nature pines 730 

Abandon'd as unworthy of our love. 

But are not wholesome airs, though unperfum'd 

By roses ; and clear suns, though scarcely felt; 

And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure 

From clamour, and whose very silence charms ; 735 

To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse, 

That metropolitan volcanoes make, 

Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long ; 

And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow. 

And thund'rmg loud, with his ten thousand wheels ? 

They would be, were not madness in the head, 741 

And folly in the heart } were England now, 

What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, 

And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell 

To all the virtues of those better days, 745 

And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once 

Knew their own masters ; and laborious hinds, 

Who had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son. 

Now, the legitimate and rightful lord 

Is but a transient guest, newly arriv'd, 750 

And soon to be supplanted. He that saw 

His patrimonial timber cast its leaf. 

Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price 

To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. 

Estates are landscapes, gaz'd upon a while, 755 

Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away. 

The country starves, and they that feed th' o'ercharg'd 

And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, 

By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. 

The wings that waft our riches out of sight, 760 

Grow on the gamester's elbows, and the alert 

And nimble motion of those restless joints, 

That never tire, soon fans them all away. 

Improvement, ioo, the idol of the age, 

Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes ! 765 



THE GARDEN 73 

Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears I 
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode 
Of our forefathers — a grave whisker'd race, 
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, 
But in a distant spot ; where more expos'd 770 

It may enjoy th' advantage of the north. 
And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd 
Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove. 
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn } 
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise : 775 

And streams, as if created for his use. 
Pursue the track of his directing wand, 
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades — 
E'en as he bids ! Th' enraptur'd owner smiles. 780 
'Tis finish 'd, and yet, finish'd as it seems. 
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, 
A mine to satisfy th' enormous cost. 
Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth. 
He sighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplish'd plan 785 
That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day 
Labour'd, and many a night pursu'd in dreams, 
Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the Heav'n 
He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy ! 
And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, 790 

When, having no stake left, no pledge t' endear. 
Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause 
A moment's operation on his love. 
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal 
To serve his country. Ministerial grace 795 

Deals him out money from the publick chest ; 
Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse 
Supplies his need with a usurious loan. 
To be refunded duly, when his vote 
Well-manag'd shall have earn'd its worthy price. 800 
O innocent, compar'd with arts like these, 
Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball 
Sent through the trav'ller's temples ' He that finds 
Vol. n. 7 



74 THE TASK. 

One drop of Heav'n's sweet mercy in his cup, 

Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, 805 

So he may wrap himself in honest rags 

At his last gasp ; but could not for a world 

Fish up his dirty and dependent bread 

From pools and ditches of the commonwealtbj 

Sordid and sick'ning at his own success. blO 

Ambition, avarice, penury, incurr'd 
By endless riot, vanity, the lust 
Of pleasure and variety, despatch 
As duly as the swallows disappear, 
The world of wand'ring knights and squires to town. 
London ingulfs them all 1 The shark is there, 816 

And the shark's prey ; the spendthrift, and the leech 
That sucks him • there the sycophant, and he 
Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bows, 
Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail 820 

And groat per diem, if his patron frown. 
The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp 
Were charactered on ev'ry statesman's door, 
" Batter d and bankrupt fortunes mended here/* 
These are the charms that sully and eclipse 82S 

The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe. 
That lean, hard-handed Poverty inflicts, 
The hope of better things, the chance to win, 
The wish to shine, the thirst to be amus'd. 
That at the sound of Winter's hoary wing 830 

Unpeople all our countries of such herds 
Of flutt'ring, loit'ring, cringing, begging, loose, 
And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast 
And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. 

O thou resort and mart of all the earth, 835 

Checker'd with all complexions of mankind, 
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love, and more that I admire, 
And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
Tliat pleasest and yet shock'st me ! I can lauji.'; b40 
And I can weep; can hope and can despond 



THE GARDEN. It 

f"'eel wrath and pity, when T think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, 
And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 845 
And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, 
Than Sodom in her day had pow'r to be, 
Frr wiioni God heard his Abrhara plead in vain. 



THE TASK. 



THE WINTER EVENING 



ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH BOOK. 

The post comes in — The newspaper is read — The World contem- 
plated at a distance — Address to Winter — The rural amusements 
of a winter evening compared with the fashionable ones — Ad- 
dress to evening — A brown study — Fall of snow in the evening — 
The wagoner — A poor family piece — The rural thief — Publick 
houses — Tlie multitude of them censured — Tlie farmer's daugh- 
ter : what she was, — what she is — The simplicity of country 
manners almost lost — Causes of the change — Desertion of the 
country by the rich — Neglect of the magistrates — The militia prin- 
cipally in fault — The new recruit and his transformation — Re- 
flection on bodies corporate — The love of rural objects natural to 
all, and never to be totally extinguished. 



HARK ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 

That with its wearisome but needful length 

Bestrides the wintry flood ; in which the moon 

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright : — 

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, h 

With spattered boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks, 

News from all nations luinb'ring at his back. 

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, 

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 

Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn ; 10 

And having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. 

[le whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 



THE WINTER EVENING. 77 

Cold and j^et cheerful : messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. 15 

Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains, 20 
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
But O, th' important budget I usher'd in 
With such heart-shaking rnusick, who can say 
What are its tidings ? ho-ve our troops awak'd ? 25 
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantick wave 
Is India free ? and does she wear her plum'd 
And jewel'd turban with a smile of peace, 
Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 30 

The popular harangue, the tart reply. 
The logick, and the wisdom, and the wit. 
And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; 
I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free. 
And give them voice and utt'rance once again. 35 

Now stir the fire, a.nd close the shutters fast. 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 40 

So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. 
Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd 
And bor'd with elbow points through both his sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 45 

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroick rage, 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles 
This folio of four pages happy work ! 50 



78 THE TASK 

Which not e'en criticks criticise ; that holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read, 
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break ; 
What is it, but a map of busy life, 55 

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? 
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, 
That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them 1 At his heels CO 
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends. 
And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him down. 
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 
Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 65 

The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd, 
T' engross a moment's notice ; and yet begs, 
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts^, 
However trivial, all that he conceives. 
Sweet bashfulness ; it claims at least this praise : 70 
The dearth of information and good sense 
That it forete;ls us always comes to pass. 
Cataracts of declamation thnnder here ; 
There forests of no meaning spread the page, 
In which all comprehension wanders, lost j 75 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
With merry descants on a nation's woes. 
The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 
And lilies for the brows of faded age, 80 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets, 
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews. 
Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, 
.Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, 85 

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. 
'Tis pleasant^ through the loopholes of retreat, 



THE WINTER EVENING. 79 

To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 90 

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur"d ear. 
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd 95 

To some secure and more than mortal height, 
That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
With all its generations ; I behold 
The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 100 

Has lost its terrours ere it reaches me ; 
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
And av'rice that make man a wolf to man ; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 
By which he speaks the language of his heart, 106 
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land; 
The manners, customs, policy, of all 
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; HO 

He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime. 
And spreads the honey of his deep research 
At his return — a rich repast for me. 
He travels, and I too. 1 tread his deck, 
Ascend his topmast through his peering eyes 115 

Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 
While fancy, like the finger of a clock. 
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. 

O Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, 120 

Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd. 
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 125 

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 



80 THE TASP:. 

But urg'd by storms along its slipp'ry way, 

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 

And dreaded as tliou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 

A pris'ner in the yet undawning east, 13C 

Short'ning his journey between morn and noon, 

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 

Down to the rosy west : but kindly still 

Compensating his loss with added hours 

Of social converse and instructive ease, 135 

And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group 

The family dispers'd, and fixing thought. 

Not less dispers'd by daylight and its cares. 

I crown thee king of intimate delights, 

Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 140 

And all the comforts that the lowly roof 

Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 

Of long, uninterrupted ev'ning know. 

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates , 

No powder'd pert proficient in the art 145 

Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 

Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 

Cough their own knell, v/liile, heedless of the sound, 

The silent circle fan themselves, and quake ; 

But here the needle plies its busy task, 150 

The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, 

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 

Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 

And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos'd. 

Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 155 

A wreath, that cannot fade, or flov/'rs that blow 

"With most success when all besides decay. 

The poet's or historian's page by one 

Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest : 159 

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 

The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out j 

And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, 

And in the charming strife triumphant still, 

Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 



THE AVINTER EVENING. 81 

On female industry : the threaded .steel 165 

Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
The volume clos'd, the customary rites 
Of the last meal commence. A P«.oman meal: 
Such as the mistress of the world once found 
Delicious, when her patriots of high note, 170 

Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, 
And under an old oak's domestick shade, 
Enjoy'd, spare feast ! a radish and an egg. 
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. 
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 175 

Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
Nor do we madly, like an impious World, 
Who deem religion frenzy, and the God 
That made them an intruder on their joys. 
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 180 

A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone 
Exciting oft our gratitude and love, 
While we retrace with Mem'ry's pointing wand, 
That calls the past to our exact review. 
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 185 
The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found 
Unlook'd for, life preserv'd, and peace restor'd — 
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
O ev'nings worthy of the gods ! exclaim'd 
The Sabine bard. O ev'nings, I reply, 190 

More to be priz'd and coveted than yours. 
As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, 
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this .' 
Needs he the tragick fur, the smoke of lamps, 195 
The pent-up breath of an unsav'ry throng, 
To thaw him into feeling, or the smart 
And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile ? 
The self-complacent actor, when he views 200 

(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) 
The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof 



82 THE TASK. 

(As if one master spring controll'd thera all,) 

Relax'd into a universal grin, 

Sees not a count'nance tliere, that speaks of joy 205 

Half so refin'd or so sincere as ours. 

Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks 

That idleness has ever yet contriv'd 

To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, 

To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. 210 

Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 

Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound ; 

But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! 

Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd, 

With motley plumes ; and where the peacock shows 

His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red 216 

With spots quadrangular of diamond form, 

Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife, 

And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. 

What should be, and what was an hourglass once, 220 

Becomes a dicebox, and a billiard mace 

Well does the work of his destructive sithe. 

Thus deck'd, he charms a World whom Fashion blinds 

To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most: 

Whose only happy, are their idle hours. 225 

E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore 

The backstring and the bib, assume the dress 

Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school 

Of card devoted Time, and, night by night, 

Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board, 230 

Learn ev'ry trick, and soon play all the game. 

But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, 

Where shall I find an end, or how proceed ? 

As he that travels far oft turns aside, 

To view some rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r, 235 

Which seen, delights him not ; then coming home, 

Describes and prints it, that the world may know 

How far he went for what was nothing worth ; 

So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread, 

With colours mix'd for a far dilfrent use, 240 



THE WINTER EVENING. 83 

Paint cards, and dolls, and cv'ry idle thing, 
That Fancy finds in lior excursive flights. 

Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace, 
Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long ! 
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, 245 

With matron step slow-moving, while the Night 
Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand employ'd 
In letting fall the curtain of repose 
On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man 
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 250 

Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, 
Like homely-featur'd Night, of clust'ring gems j 
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, 
Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 255 

With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
With modest grandeur i:i thy purple zone. 
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. 
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift ; 260 

And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
To books, to musick, or the poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
WJien they corumnnd whom man was born to please ; 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 2GG 

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze 
With lights, by clear reflection multiplied 
From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, 
Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk 270 

Whole without stooping, tow'ring crest and all, 
My pleasures, too, begin. But me perhaps 
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile 
With faint illumination, that uplifts 
The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits 275 

Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame, 
Not undelightful is an hour to me 
So spent in parlour twilight r such a gloom 



84 THE TASK. 

Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, 

The mind contemplative, witli some new themo 280 

Pregnant, or indispos'd alike to all. 

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs, 

That never feel a stupor, know no pause, 

Nor need one ; I am conscious, and confess 

Fearless, a soul that does not always think. 285 

Me oft has Fancy, ludicrous and wild, 

Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, 

Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 

In the red cinders, while with poring eye 

I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw. 290 

Nor less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd 

The sooty films that play upon the bars 

Pendulous, and foreboding in the view 

Of superstition, prophesying still, 

Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near approach. 

'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 296 

In indolent vacuity of thought. 

And sleeps, and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face 

Conceals the mood lethargick with a mask 

Of deep deliberation, as the man 300 

Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost 

Thus oft, reclin'd at ease, I lose an hour 

At ev'ning, till pt length the freezing blast 

That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home 

The recollected now'rs ; and snapping short 305 

The glassy threads, with which the Fancy weaves 

Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. 

How calm is my recess ; and how the frost, 

Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear 

The silence and the warmth enjoy 'd within ! 310 

I saw the woods and fields at close of day, 

A variegated show ; the meadows green. 

Though faded ; and the lands, where lately wav'd 

The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 

Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 315 

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 



THE WINTER EVENING. 85 

With verdure not unprofitable, graz'd 
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
His fav'rite herb : Avhile all the leafless groves 
That skirt th' horizon wore a sable hue, 320 

Scarce notic'd in the kindred dusk of eve. 
To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
Which even now, though silently perform'd, 
And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
Of universal nature undergoes. 325 

Fast falls a fleecy show'r : the downy flakes 
Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, 
Softly alighting upon all below. 
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
Gladly the thick'ning mantle ; and the green 330 

And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, 
Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 

In such a woi'ld, so thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found. 
Without some thistly sorrow at its sidej 335 

It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
Against the law of love, to measure lots 
With less distinguish'd than ourselves ; that thus 
We may with patience bear our moderate ills. 
And sympathize with others suft'ring more. 340 

111 fares the travller now, and he that stalks 
In pond'rous boots beside his reeking team 
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
By congregated loads adhering close 
To the clogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish pace 345 
Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. 
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 
While ev'ry breath, by respiration strong 
Forc'd downward, is consolidated soon 
Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear 350 
The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 
With half shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth 
Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
One hand secures his hat, save when with both 

Vol. II. 8 



86 THE TASK. 

He orandishes his pliant length of whip, 353 

Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 

O happy ; and in my account denied 

That sensibility of pain with ^vhich ^ 

Refinement is endu'd. thrice happy thou ! 

Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 360 

The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. 

The learn'd finger never need explore 

Thy vig'rous pulse ; and the unheathful east, 

That breathes the spleen, and searches ev'ry bone 

Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 365 

Thy days roll an exempt from household care ; 

Thy wagon is tliy wife ; and the poor beasts, 

That drag the dull companion to and fro, 

Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 

Ah, treat them kindly ; rude as thou appear'st, 370 

Yet shov,' that thou hast mercy ! which the great, 

With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, 

Humane as they would seem, not always show. 

Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat. 
Such claim compassion in a night like this, 375 

And have a friend in ev'ry feeling heart. 
Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long 
They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
111 clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
The frugal housewife trembles when she lights 380 
Her scanty stock of brushwood blazing clear, 
But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
The few small embers left she nurses well ; 
And, while her infant race, with outspread hands 
And crowded knees, sit cow'ring o'er the sparks, 385 
Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd 
The man feels least, as more inur'd than she 
To winter, and the current in his veins 
More briskly mov'd by his severer toil; 
Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. 390 

The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw 
Dangled along at the cold finger's end 



THE WINTER EVENING. 87 

Just when the day declin'd : and the brown loaf 
Lodg'd on the shelf half eaten without sauce 
Of sav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still; 395 

Sleep seems their only refuge : for, alas I 
Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, 
And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few ! 
With all this thrift they thrive not. All the caro, 
Ingenious Parshnony takes, but just 400 

Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, 
Skillet, and old carv'd chest, from publick sale. 
They live, and live wdthout extorted alms 
From grudging hands : but other boast have none, 
To sooth their honest pride, that scorns to beg, 405 
Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. 
I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, 
For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far 
A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, 
And eateii with a sigh, than to endure 410 

The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs 
Of knaves in office, partial in the work 
Of distribution ; lib'ral of their aid 
To clam'rous Importunity in rags, 
But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush 415 
To v/ear a tatter'd garb, hovvcver coarse. 
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth : 
These ask with painful shyness, and, refus'd 
Because deserving, silently retire I 
But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 420 

Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase ; 
And all your numerous progeny, well train'd, 
But helpless, in few years shall find tlieir hands, 
And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 
What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, 425 
Nor what a wealthier tlian ourselves may send. 
I mean the man, who, when the distant poor 
Need help, denies them nothing but liis name. 
But poverty with most, who whimper forth 
Their long complaints, is self-inflicted wo ; 430 



88 THE TASK. 

The effect of laziness or sottish wasto. 
Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad 
For plunder ; much solicitous hov/ best 
He may compensate for a day of sloth 
By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. 435 

Wo to the gard'ner's pale, the farmer's hedge, 
Plash 'd neatly, and secur'd with driven stakes 
Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, 
Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame 
To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, 440 

An ass's burden, and, when laden most 
And heaviest, light of foot, steals fast away 
Nor does the bordered hovel better guard 
The well-stack 'd pile of riven logs and roota 
From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave 445 
Unwrench'd the door, however well secur'd, 
Where Chanticleer amidst his haram sleeps 
In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perch, 
He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, 
To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, 450 

And loudly wond'ring at the sudden change. 
Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse 
Did pity of their suff'rings warp aside 
His principle, and tempt him into sin 
For their support, so destitute. But they 455 

Neglected, pine at home ; themselves, as more 
Expos'd than others, with less scruple made 
His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. 
Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst 
Of ruinous ebriety, that prompts 460 

His ev'ry action, and imbrutes the man. 
O for a law to noose the villain's neck 
Who starves his own ; who persecutes the blood 
He gave them in his children's veins, and hates 
And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love ! 465 
Pass where we may, through city or through town, 
Village or hamlet, of this merry land, 
Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace 



THE WINTER EVENING. 89 

Conducts th' unguarded nose to such a whiff 
Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the sties 470 

That law has licens'd, as makes Temp'rance reel. 
There sit, involv'd and lost in curling clouds 
Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, 
The lackey, and the groom ; the craftsman thero 
Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil ; 475 

Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, 
And he that kneads the dough ; all loud alike, 
All learned and all drunk I the fiddle screams 
Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail'd 
Its wasted tones and harmony unheard, 480 

Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme ; while she, 
Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, 
Perch'd on the signpost, holds with oven hand 
Her undecisive scales. In this she lays 
A weight of ignorance ; in that, of pride •, 485 

And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. 
Dire is the frequent curse, and its tv/in sound, 
Th3 cheek distending oath, not to be prais'd 
! As ornamental, musical, polite. 

Like those which modern senators employ, 490 

Whose oath is rhet'rick, and who swear for fame ! 
Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds, 
Once simple, are initiated in arts 
Which some may practise with politer grace, 
But none v/ith readier skill ! — 'Tis here they learn 
The road that leads from competence and peace 496 
To indigence and rapine ; till at last 
Society, grown weary of the load. 
Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 
But censure profits little ; vain th' attempt 500 

To advertise in verse a publick pest, 
That, liko the filth with which the peasant feeds 
His Inmgry acres, stinks, and is of use. 
Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result 
Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks, 505 

For ever dribbling out their base contents, 
8* 



90 THE TASK. 

Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, 

Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 

Drink, and be mad then j^'tis your country bids ! 

Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call.' 510 

tier cause demands th' assistance of your throats ; 

Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 

Would I had fall'n upon those happier days 
That poets celebrate : those golden times, 
And those Arcadian scenes that Marc sings, 515 

And Sidney, v/arbler of poetick prose. 
Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts 
That felt their virtues : Innocence, it seems, 
From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the groyes> 
The footsteps of simplicity, impressed 520 

Upon the yielding herbage, (so they sing.) 
Then were not all efFac'd : then speech profane, 
And manners profligate, were rarely found, 
Observ'd as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. 
Vain wish ! those days were never ; airy dreams 525 
Sat for the picture : and the poet's hand. 
Imparting substance to an empty shade, 

Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth. j 

Grant it : I still must envy them an age 
That favour 'd such a dream : in days like these 530 
Impossible when Virtue is so scarce, 
That to suppose a scene where she presides 
Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief 
No : we are polish'd now. The rural lass, 
Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, 535 

Her artless manners, and her neat attire. 
So dignified, that she was hardly less 
Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, 
Is seen no more. The character is lost ! 
Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, 540 

And ribands streaming gay, superbly rais'd, 
And magnified beyond all human size. 
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand 
For more than half the tresses it sustains ; 



THE WINTER EVENING. 91 

Her elbows ruffled, and lior tott'ring form 545 

111 propp'd upon French heels ; she might be deem'd 
(But that the basket dangling on her arm 
Interprets her more truly) of a rank 
Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs — 
Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, 550 

No longer blushing for her awkv/ard load, 
Her train and her umbrella all her care I 

The town has ting'd the country ; and the stain 
Appears a spot upon a vestal "s robe, 
The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs 555 
Down into scenes still rural ; but, alas, 
Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now ! 
Time was when in the pastoral retreat 
Th' unguarded door was safe ; men did not watch 
T' invade another's right, or guard their own. 560 

Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscar'd 
By drunken howlings ; and the chilling tale 
Of midnight murder v/as a wonder heard 
With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes. 
But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, 565 

And slumbers unalarm'd ! Now, ere you sleep. 
See that your polish'd arms be prim'd v/ith care, 
And drop the night-bolt ; — ruffians are abroad ; 
And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat 
May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear 570 

To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. 
E'en daylight has its dangers ; and the walk 
Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once 
Of other tenants than melodious birds. 
Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. 575 

Lamented change ! to which full many a cause 
Invet'rate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. 
The course of human things from good to ill. 
From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. 
Increase of pow'r begets increase of vrealth ; 580 

Wealth luxury, and luxury excess ; 
Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague. 



92 THE TASK. 

That seizes first the opulent, descends 

To the next rank contagious, and in time 

Taints downward ail the graduated scale 585 

Of order, from the chariot to the plough. 

The rich, and they tliat have an arm to check 

The license of the lowest in degree, 

Desert their office ; and themselves, intent 

On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus 590 

To all the violence of lawless hands 

Resign the scenes their presence might protect. 

Authority herself not seldom sleeps, 

Though resident, and witness of the wTong. 

The plump convivial parson often bears 595 

The magisterial sword in vain, and lays 

His rev'rence and iiis worship both to rest 

On the same cushion of habitual sloth. 

Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; 

When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, 600 

Himself enslaved by terrour of the band — 

Th' audacious convict whom he dares not bind. 

Perhaps though by profession ghostly pure, 

He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove 

Less dainty than becomes his grave outside 605 

In lucrative concerns. Examine well 

His milk-white hand ; the palm is harldly clean — 

But here and there an ugly smutch appears. 

Foh ! 'twas a bribe that left it : he has touch'd 

Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here 610 

Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, 

Wild fowl or venison : and his errand speeds. 

But faster far, and more than all the rest, 
A noble cause, which none, who bears a b'park 
Of publick virtue, ever wish'd remov'd, 615 

Works the deplor'd and mischievous effect. 
'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd 
The heart of merit in the meaner class. 
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage 
Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, 620 



THE WINTER EVENING. 93 

Seem most at variance with all moral good, 

I And incompatible with serious thought. 

j The clown, the child of nature, without guile, 

i Blest with an infant's ignorance of all 

But his own simple pleasures ; now and then 625 

A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair ; 
Is balloted, and trembles at the news : 
Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears 
A bible oath to be whaie'er they please, 
To do he knows not what. The task perform'd 630 
That instant he becomes the sergeant's care, 
His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. 
His awkward gait, his introverted toes, 
Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, 
Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, 635 
Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, 
He yet by slow degrees puts off himself. 
Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: 
He stands erect : his slouch becomes a walk ; 
He steps right onward, martial in his air, 640 

His form and movement ; is as smart above 
As meal and larded locks can make him ; wears 
His hat, or his plum'd helmet, with a grace ; 
And, his three years of heroship expir'd, 
Returns indignant to the slighted plough. 645 

He hates the field, in which no fife or drum 
Attends him ; drives his cattle to a march ; 
And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 
Twere well if his exteriour change were ail- 
But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost 650 
His ignorance and harmless manners too. 
To swear, to game, to drink ; to show at home 
By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, 
The great proficiency he made abroad ; 
T' astonish, and to grieve his gazing friends ; 655 
To break some maiden's and his mother's heart: 
To be a pest where he was useful once ; 
Are his sole aim, and all his glory, now 



94 THE TASK. 

Man in society is like a flow'r 
Blown in its native bed ; 'tis there alone 6(? 

His faculties, expanded in full bloom, 
Shine out ; there only reach tlieir proper use. 
But man, associated and leagued with man 
Hy regal warrant or self-join'd by bond 
For int'rest sake, or swarming into clans 6Cf 

Beneatli one head for purposes of war, 
Like flow'rs selected from the rest, and bound 
And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, 
Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, 
Contracts defilement not to be endur'd. 67(1 

Hence charter'd boroughs are such publick plagues 
And burghers, men immaculate perhaps 
In all their private functions, once combin'd. 
Become a loathsome body, only fit 
For dissolution, hurtful to the main. 675 

Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin 
Against the charities of domestick life, 
Incorporated, seem at once to lose 
Their nature ; and, disclaiming all regard 
For mercy and the common rights of man, 680 

Build factories with blood, conducting trade 
At the sword's point, and dying the white robe 
Of innocent commercial Justice red. 
Hence, too, the field of glory, as the world 
Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, 685 

"With all its majesty of thund'ring pomp, 
Enchanting musick, and immortal wreaths. 
Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught 
On principle, where foppery atones 
For folly, gallantry for ev'ry vice. 69(1 

But slighted as it is, and by the great 
Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret, 
Infected with the manners and the modes 
It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
I never frani'd a wish, or form'd a plan, 695 

That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, 



TliE WINTER EVENirsG. 05 

But there I laid the scene. There earlj stray 'd 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
My very dreams were rural ; rural too 700 

The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, 
Sportive and jingling her poetick bells, 
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd 
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 705 

Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe 
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
The rustick throng beneath his fav'rite beech. 
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : 
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd 710 

The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
To speak its excellence. I danc'd for joy. 
I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age 
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
Engag'd my wonder ; and admiring still, 715 

And still admiring, with regret suppos'd 
The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 
There, too, enamour 'd of the life I lov'd, 
Pathetick in its praise, in its pursuit 
Determin'd and possessing it at last, 720 

With transports such as favour'd lovers feel, 
I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known, 
Ingenious Cowley ! and, though now reclaim'd 
By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 725 

Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 
I still revere thee, courtly though retir'd ; 
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bow'rs, 
Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends 
For a lost world in solitude and verse. 730 

'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works 
Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
Infus'd at the creation of the kind. 
And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout 



'3G THE T.VSK. 

Discriminated eacli from each, by strokes 735 

And touches of his hand, with so much art 
Diversified, that two were never found 
Twins at all points — yet tins obtains in all 
That all discern a beauty in his works, 
And all can taste them : minds that have been form'd 
And tutor'd with a relish more exact, 741 

But none without some relish, none unmov'd. 
It is a flame that dies not even there, 
Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 
Nor habits of luxurious city life, 745 

Whatever else they smother of true worth 
In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 
The villas, with v/hich London stands begirt. 
Like a swartli Indian with his belt of beads 
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air 750 

The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer 
The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! 
E'en in the stifling bosom of tlie town 
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms 
That sooth th3 rich possessor ; much consol'd, 755 
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint 
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well 
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 
That Nature lives ; that sight-refreshing green 
Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear, 760 

Though sickly samples of th' exub'rant whole. 
What are the casements lin'd with creeping herbs, 
The prouder sashes fronted with a range 
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, 
The Frenchman's darling ?* are they not all proofs, 
That man, immur'd in cites, still retains 766 

His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 
By supplemental shifts, the best he may ? 
The most unfurnish'd v/ith the means of life, 770 

And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds, 
* Mig-nionetle. 



THE WINTER EVENING. 97 

To range the fields, and treat their lungs witn air, 
Yet feel the burning instinct ; over head 
Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick, 
And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands 775 

A fragment, and tlio spoutless teapot there ; 
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
The country, with what ardour he contrives 
A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, 780 
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys, 
And harmless pleasures in the throng'd abode 
Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life ' 
Address himself who will to the pursuit 
Of honours, or emolument, or fame ; 785 

I shall not add myself to such a chase, 
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
Some must be great. Great offices will have 
Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man 
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 790 

That lifts him into life, and lets him fall 
Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill. 
To the deliv'rer of an injur'd land 
He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon, a heart 
To feel, and courage to redress, her wrongs*, 795 

To monarchs dignity ; to judges sense ; 
To artists ingenuity and pkill : 
To me, an unambitious mind, content 
In the low vale of life, that early felt 
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long 800 

Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd. 

Vol. II. 9 



THE TASK. 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH BOOK. 

A frosty morning — The foddering of cattle — The woodman and 
his dog — The poultry — Whimsical effects of a frost at a waterfall 
— The empress of Russia's palace of ice — Amusements of mo- 
narchs — War, one of them — Wars, whence — And whence mo- 
narchy — The evils of it — English and French loyalty contrasted 
— The Bastile, and a prisoner there — Lilierty the chief recom- 
mendation of this country — Modern patriotism questionable, 
and why — The perishable nature of the best human institutions 
— Spiritual liberty not peris'aal)Ie — Tlie slavish state of man by 
nature — Deliver him, Deist, if you can — Grace must do it — Tho 
respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated — Their different 
treatment — Happy freedom of th(i man whom grace makes free — ■ 
His lelish of the works of God — Address to the Creator. 



'TIS morning ; and the sun, with ruddy orb 

Ascending, fires th' horizon ; while the clouds 

That crowd away before the driving wind, 

More ardent as the disk emerges more, 

Resemble most some city in a blaze, 5 

Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 

Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 

And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, 

From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade 

Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field, 10 

Mine spindling into longitude immense. 

In spite of gravity, and sage remark 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 99 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 
Provokes me to a sinile. With eye askance, 
I view the muscular proportioned limb 15 

Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
As tney design'd to mock me, at my side, 
Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
Prepost'rous sight ! the legs without the man. 20 

The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, 
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 25 

And, fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder ; not like hung'ring man, 30 

Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek, 
And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load, 
Deep plunging, and again deep-plunging ofl. 
His broad keen knife into the solid mass ; 35 

Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away ; no needless care, 
Lest storm should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight. 40 

Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd 
The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe. 
And drive the wedge, in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 45 
And tail cropp'd short, half lurclier and half cur— 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow ; and now, with many a frisk 
Wide-scamp'ring, snatches up the drifted snow 
With iv'ry teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 50 



100 THE TASK. 

Then shakes tiis powder'd coat, and barks for joy. 
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
Moves right to\A'ard the mark ; nor stops for aught, 
But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
T' adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, 55 

That fumes beneath his nose : the trailing cloud 
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
Now from the roost, or from the neighb'ring pale 
Where diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side, 60 

Come trooping at the housewife's well known call 
The feather'd tribes domestick. Half on wing, 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the shelt'ring eaves, 65 
To seize the fair occasion ; well they eye 
The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolv'd 
T* escape th' impending famine, often scar'd 
As oft return — a pert voracious kind. 
Chan riddance quickly made, one only care 70 

Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut ; and, wading at their head 
"With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent 75 1 1 

His alter'd gait, and stateliness retrench'd. \ 

How find the myriads, that in summer cheer I 

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 
Due sustenance, or where subsist they now.'' 
Earth yields them naught ; th' imprisoned worm is 
safe 80 

Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs j 

Lie cover'd close ; and berry-bearing thorns, j 

That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) ! 

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
The long-protracted rigour of the year 85 

Thins all their num'rous flocks. In chinks and holes 
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end. 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 101 
As instinct prompts ; self-buried ere tliey die. 
The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, 
Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth nut, now 90 
Repays their labour more ; and perch'd aloft 
By the way-side, or stalking in the path, 
Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, 
Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, 
Of voided pulse or half-digested grain. 95 

The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, 
O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood. 
Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight 
Lies undissolved ; while silently beneath. 
And unperceiv'd, the current steals away. 100 

Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps 
The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, 
And w^antons in the pebbly gulf below : 
No frost can bind it there : its utmost force 
Can but arrest the light and smoky mist, 105 

That in its fall the liouid sheet throws wide. 
And see where it has hung the embroider'd banks 
With forms so various, that no pow'rs of art, 
The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene ! 
Here glitt'ring turrets rise, upbearing high, 110 

(Fantastick misarrangement !) on the roof 
Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees 
And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops 
That trickled down the branches, fast congeal'd, 
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, 115 

And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. 
Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
The sunbeam ; there, emboss'd and fretted wild. 
The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes 
Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain 120 

The likeness of some object seen before. 
Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art, 
\nd in defiance of her rival pow'rs ; 
3y these fortuitous and ran -torn strokes 
Performing such inimitable featS; 125 

9^ 



102 THE TASK. 

As phe with all her rules can never reach. 

Less worthy of applause, though more admir'd. 

Because a novelty, the work of man, 

Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, 

Thy most magnficent and mighty freak, 130 

The wonder of tlie North. No forest fell 

"When thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its stores, 

T' enrich thy walls : but thou didst hew the floods, 

And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 

In such a palace AristJEUs found 135 

Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale 

Of his lost bees to her maturna.l ear: 

In such a palace poetry might place 

The armoury of Winter ; where his troops, 

The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet 140 

Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail. 

And snow, that often blinds the traveler's course. 

And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 

Silently as a dream the fabrick rose ; 

No sound of hammer or of saw was there : 145 

Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 

Were soon conjoin'd, nor other cement ask'd 

Than water interfus'd, to make them one. 

Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, 

Illumin'd ev'ry side : a wat'ry light 150 

Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seera'd 

Another moon new ris'n, or meteor fall'n 

From Heav'n to Earth, of lambent flame serene 

So stood the brittle prodigy ; though smooth 

And slipp'ry the materials, yet frost-bound 155 

Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within 

That royal residence might well befit. 

For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 

Of fiow'rs that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 

Blush'd on the pannels. Mirror needed none ICO 

Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 

Convivial table and commodious seat 

(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there ' 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 103 

Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august. 

The same lubricity was found in all, 165 

And all was moist to the warm touch ; a scene 

Of evanescent glory, once a stream, 

And soon to slide into a stream again. 

Alas ! 'twas but a mortifying stroke 

Of undesign'd severity, that glanc'd, 170 

(Made by a monarch,) on her own estate, 

On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 

'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 

'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd 

Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 175 

Treach'rous and false ; it smil'd, and it was cold. 

Great princes have great play-things. Some have 
play'd 
At hewing mountains into men, and some 
At building human wonders mountain-high. 
Some have amus'd the dull, sad years of life, 180 

(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad,) 
With schemes of monumental fame ; and sought 
By pyramids and mausolean pomp, 
Short liv'd themselves, t' immortalize their bones. 
Some seek diversion in the tented field, 185 

And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
But war's a game, which, were their subjects wise, 
Kings would not play at. Nations would do well, 
T' extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 190 

Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, 
Because men suffer it, their toy, the world. 

When Babel was confounded, and the great 
Confed'racy of projectors wild and vain 
Was split into diversity of tongues, 195 

Then, as a fhepherd separates his flock, 
These to the jpland, to the valley those, 
God drove asunder, and assign'd their lot 
To all the nations. xAmple was the boon 
He gave them, in its distribution fair 200 



104 THE TASK. 

And equal ; and he bade them dwell in peace. 

Peace was awhile their care ; they plough'd,and60W'd, 

And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife. 

But violence can never longer sleep 

Than human passions please. In every heart 205 

Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war ; 

Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. 

Cain had already shed a brother's blood : 

The deluge wash'd it out ; but left unquench'd 

The seeds of murder in the breast of man. 210 

Soon by a righteous judgment in the line 

Of his descending progeny was found 

The first artificer of death; the shrewd 

Contriver, who first sweated at the forge, 

And forc'd the blunt and yet unbloodied steel 215 

To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. 

Him, Tubal nam'd, the Vulcan of old times. 

The sword and falchion their inventor claim ; 

And the first smith was the first murd'rer's son. 

His art surviv'd the waters ; and ere long, 220 

When man was multiplied and spread abroad 

In tribes and clans, and had begun to call 

These meadows and that range of hills his own, 

The tasted sweets of property begat 

Desire of more ; and inaustry in some, 225 

T' improve and cultivate their just demesne, 

Made others covet v.'hat they saw so fair. 

Thus war began on Earth : these fought for spoil, 

And those in self-defence. Savage at first 

The onset, and irregular. At length 230 

One eminent above the rest for strength, 

For stratagem, for courage, or for all, 

Was chosen leader ; him they serv'd in war, 

And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds, 

Rev'renc'd no lesy. Who could with him compare ? 

Or who so v.'orthy to control themselves, 236 

As he, whose prowess had subdu'd their foes ? 

Thus war, aiFording field for the display 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 105 
Of virtue, made one cliicf, whom times of peace, 
Which have their exigencies too, and call 240 

Tor skill in government, at length made king. 
King was a name too proud for man to wear 
With modesty and meekness ; and the crown 
So dazzling in their eyes, who set it on, 
Was sure t' intoxicate the brows it bound 245 

It is the abject property of most, 
That, being parcel of the common mass, 
And destitute of means to raise themselves, 
They sink, and settle lower than they need. 
They know not M'^hat it is to feel within 250 

A comprehensive faculty, that grasps 
Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, 
Almost without an effort, plans too vast 
For their conception, which they cannot move. 
Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk 235 
With gazing, when they see an able man 
Step forth to notice ; and, besotted thus, 
Build him a pedestal, and sa}^, " Stand there, 
" And be our admiration and our praise." 
They roll themselves before him in the dust, 260 

Then most deserving in their own account 
When most extravagant in his applause, 
As if, exalting him, they rais'd themselves. 
Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound 
And sober judgment, that he is but man, 265 

They demi-deify and fume him so, 
That in due season he forgets it too. 
Inflated and astrut with self conceit, 
He gulps the windy diet ; and ere long, 
Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks 270 

The world was made in vain, if not for him. 
Thenceforth they are his cattle ; drudges, born 
To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears. 
And sweating in his service, his caprice 
Becomes the soul that animates them all. 275 

He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, 



106 THE TASK. 

Spent in the purchase of renown for him, 

An easy reck'ning : and they think the same. 

Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings 

Were burnish'd into heroes, and became 280 

The arbiters of tliis terraqueous swamp ; 

Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died. 

Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated man 

To eminence, fit only for a god. 

Should ever drivel out of human lips, 285 

E'en in the cradled weakness of the world ! 

Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind 

Had reach'd the sinev/y firmness of their youth, 

And could discriminate and argue well 

On subjects more mysterious, they were yet 290 

Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear 

And quake before the gods themselves had made : 

But above measure strange, that neither proof 

Of sad experience, nor examples set 

By some whose patriot virtue has prevail'd, 295 

Can even now, when they are grown mature 

In wisdom, and with philosophick deeds 

Familiar, serve t' emancipate the rest ! 

Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone 

To rev'rence what is ancient, and can plead 300 

A course of long observance for its use. 

That even servitude, the worst of ills. 

Because deliver 'd down from sire to son, 

Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. 

But is it fit, or can it bear the shock 305 

Of rational discussion, that a man. 

Compounded and made up like other men 

Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust 

And folly in as ample measure meet 

As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, 310 

Should be a despot absolute, and boast 

Himself the only freeman of his land .' 

Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will, 

Wage war, with any or with no pretence 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 107 
Of provocation giv'n, or wrong stistain'd, 315 

And force the beggarly last doit by means 
That his own humour dictates, from the clutch 
Of Poverty, that thus he may procure 
His thousands, weary of penurious life, 
A splendid opportunity to die ? 320 

Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old 
Jotham ascrib'd to his assembled trees 
In politick convention) put your trust 
r th' shadow of a bramble, and, reclin'd 
In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branchy 325 
Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway, 
Where find ye passive fortitude ? Whence springs 
Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good 
To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang 
His thorns with streamers of continual praise ? 330 
We too are friends to loyalty. We love 
The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, 
And reigns content within them : him we servo 
Freely and with delight, who leaves us free : 
But recollecting still that he is man, 335 

We trust him not too far. King though he be, 
And king in England too, he may be weak 
And vain enough to be ambitious still ; 
May exercise amiss his proper pow'rs, 
Or covet more than freemen choose to grant ! 340 
Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, 
T' administer, to guard, t' adorn the state, 
But not to warp or change it. We are his, 
To serve him nobly in the common cause, 
True to the death ; but not to be his slaves. 345 

Mark now the diff'rence, ye that boast your love 
Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. 
We love the man ; the paltry pageant, you: 
We the chief patron of the commonwealth ; 
You, the regardless author of its woes ; 350 

We, for the sake of liberty, a king j 
You, chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake 



108 THE TASK. 

Our love is principle, and has its root 

In reason ; is judicious, manly, free ; 

Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, 355 

And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. 

Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, 

Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, 

I would not be a king to be belov'd 

Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise, 360 

Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 

Not to the man who fills it as he ought. 

Whose freedom is by suff ranee, and at will 
Of a superiour, he is never free. 

Who lives, and is not weary of a life 365 

Expos'd to manacles, deserves them well. 
The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd, 
And forc'd to abandon what she bravely sought, 
Deserves at least applause for her attempt, 
And pity for her loss. But that's a cause 370 

Not often unsuccessful : pow'r usurp'd 
Is weakness when oppos'd } conscious of wrong, 
'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. 
But slaves, that ontie conceive the glowing thought 
Of freedom, in that hope itself possess 375 

All that the contest calls for ; spirit, strength, 
The scorn of danger, and united hearts ; 
The surest presage of the good they seek.* 

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more 
To France than all her losses and defeats, 380 

Old or of later date, by sea or land, 

Her house of bondage, worse than that of old , 

Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh — the Bastile i j 

Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts : 
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 385 

That monarchs have supplied from age to age 

* The author hopes that he shall not be censured for un« 
necessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is 
aware, that it is become almost fashionable, to stigmatize 
such sentiments as no better than empty declamation ; but it 
is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern limes. j 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 109 
With musick, such as suits their sov'reign ears — 
Tiie sighs and groans of miserable men 1 
There's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fall'n at last ; to know 390 

That e'en our enemies, so oft employ 'd 
In forging chains for us, themselves were free. 
For he who values Liberty, confines 
His zeal for her predominance within 
No narrow bounds ; her cause engages him 395 

Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. 
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, 
Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried^ 
Cruelly spar'd, and hopeless of escape. 
There, like the visionary emblem seen 400 

By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, 
And, filleted about with hoops of brass. 
Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone. 
To count the hour-bell and expect no change ; 
And ever as the sullen sound is heard, 405 

Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note 
To him v/hose moments ail have one dull pace. 
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large 
Account it musick ; that it summons some 
To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; 410 

The wearied hireling finds it a release 
From labour ; and the lover, who has chid 
Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke 
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight- 
To fly for refuge from distracting thought 415 
To such amusements as ingenious wo 
Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools 
To read engraven on the mouldy walls, 
In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale, 
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own— 420 
To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd 
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest 
Is made familiar, watches his approach, 
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend — 
Vol. II. 10 



no THE TASK. 

To wear out time in numb 'ring to and fro 425 

The studs that thick emboss his iron door ; 

Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 

And then alternate ; with a siciily hope 

By dint of change to give his tasteless task 

Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found 430 

In all directions, he begins again — 

O comfortless existence ! hemm'd around 

With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel 

And beg for exile, or the pangs of death ? 

That man should thus encroach on fellow man, 435 

Abridge him of his just and native rights. 

Eradicate him, tear him from his hold 

Upon th' endearments of domestick life 

And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, 

And doom him for perhaps a heedless word 440 

To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, 

Moves indignation, makes the name of king, 

(Of king whom such prerogative can please) 

As dreadful as the Manichean god, 

Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy. 445 

'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
Is evil : hurts the faculties, impedes 450 

Their progress in the road of science ; blinds 
Tho eyesight of Discovery ; and begets, 
Tn those that suffer it, a sordid mind, 
Bestial, a meager intellect, unfit 

To be the tenant of man's noble form. 455 

Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, 
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd 
By publick exigence, till annual food 
Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 
Thee I account still happy, and the chief 460 

Among the nations, seeing thou art free • 
My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rudo, 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. U\ 

Replete with vapours, and disposes much 

All hearts to sadness, nnd none more than mine : 

Thine unadulterate manners are less soft 4G5 

And plausible than social hfe requires, 

And thou hast need of discipline and art, 

To give thoc what politer France receives 

From Nature's bounty — that humane address 

And sweetness, without which no pleasure is 470 

In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve, 

Or flush'd by fierce dispute, a senseless brawl. 

Yet, being free, I love thee : for the sake 

Of that one feature can be well content, 

Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art, 475 

To seek no sublunary rest beside. 

But once enslav'd, farewell ! I could endure 

Chains no where patientlj^ ; and chains at home, 

Where 1 am free by birthright, not at all. 

Then what were left of roughness in the grain 480 

Of British natures, wanting its excuse 

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust 

And shock me. I should then with double pain 

Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime ; 

And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, 485 

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, 

I would at least bewail it under skies 

Milder, among a people less austere ; 

In scenes, which having never known me free, 

Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. 490 

Do I forebode impossible events, 

And tremble at vain dreams .'' Heav'n grant I may! 

But th' age of virtuous politicks is past, 

And we are deep in that of cold pretence. 

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 495 

And we too wise to trust them. Ho that takes 

Deep in his soft credulity the stamp 

Design'd by loud declaimers on the part 

Of liberty, (themselves the slaves of lust,) 

Incurs derision for his easy faith 600 



112 THE TASK. 

And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough ; 

For when was publick virtue to be found, 

Where private was not ? Can he love the whole. 

Who loves no part ? He be a nation's friend, 

Who is in truth the friend of no man there ? 605 

Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, 

Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake 

That country, if at all, must be belov'd ? 

'Tis therefore «:ober and good men are sad 
For England's glory, seeing it wax pals 510 

And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts 
So loose to private duty, that no brain 
Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, 
Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. 
Such were they not of old, whose temper 'd blades 515 
Dispers'd the shackles of usurp'd control, 
And hew'd them link from link ; then Albion's sons 
Were sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart 
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs j 
And, shining each in his domestick sphere, 520 

Shone brighter still, once call'd to publick view, 
'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot 
Forbids their interference, looking on 
Anticipate perforce some dire event ; 
And seeing the old castle of the state, 525 

That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd, 
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake. 
Stand motionless expectants of its fall. 
All has its date below ; the fatal hour 
Was register'd in Heav'n ere time began. 590 

We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works 
Die too : the deep foundations that we lay. 
Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. 
We build with what we deem eternal rock } 
A distant age asks where the fabrick stood ; 535 

And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain, 
The undiscoverable secret sleeps. 

But there is yet a liberty, unsung 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 113 

By poets, and by senators unprais'd, 
WJiich monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs 540 
Of Earth and Hell confed'rate take away : 
A liberty, which persecution, fraud, 
Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind 
Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 
'Tis liberty of heart dcriv'd from Heav'n, 545 

Bought with his blood, who gave it to mankind, 
And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
By th' unimpeachable and awful oath 
And promise of a God. His other gifts 550 

All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, 
And are august ! but this transcends them all. 
His other works, the visible display 
Of all-creating energy and might, 
Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word 555 

That, finding an interminable space 
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well, 
And made so sparkling what was dark before. 
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, 560 

Might well suppose th' artificer divine 
Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is, 
And, still designing a more glorious far, 
Doom'd it as insuflicient for his praise. 565 

These therefore are occasional, and pass; 
Form'd for the confutation of the fool, 
Whose lying heart disputes against a God; 
That ofiice serv'd, they must be swept away. 
Not so the labours of his love : they shine 570 

In other heav'ns than these that we behold, 
And fade not. There is Paradise that fears 
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends 
Large prelibalion oft to saints below. 
Of these the first in order, and the pledge, 575 

\nd confident assurance of the rest, 
10* 



114 THE TASK. 

Is liberty ; a flight into his arms, 

Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, 

A clear escape from tyrannising lust, 

And full immunity from penal wo. 580 

Chains are the portion of revolted man, 
Stripes, and a dungeon ; and his body serves 
The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul. 
Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. 
Prepense his heart to idols, he is held 585 

In silly dotage on created things. 
Careless of their Creator. And that low 
And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs 
To a vile clod, so draws him, with such force 
Resistless from the centre he should seek, 690 

That he at last forgets it. All his hopes 
Tend downward ; his ambition is to sink, 
To reach a depth profounder still, and still 
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss 
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. 500 

But ere he gain the comfortless repose 
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul 
In Heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures — 
What does he not, from lusts oppos'd in vain, 
And self-reproaching conscience ? He foresees 600 
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, 
Fortune, and dignity ; the loss of all 
That can ennoble man and make frail life. 
Short as it is, supportable. Still worse. 
Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins 
Infect his happiest moments, he forbodes 606 

Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death. 
And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, 
Like that which sends him to the dusty grave : 
But unrepealable, enduring, death. 610 

Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : 
What none can prove a forgery, may be true , 
What none but bad men wish exploded, must 
That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 115 

Nor drunk enough to drown it In the midst 615 

Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; 

And he abhors the jest by which he shines. 

Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 

Falls first before his resolute rebuke, 

And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace ensues, 

But spurious and short liv'd : the puny child 621 

Of self-congratulating Pride begot 

On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, 

And fights again ; but finds, his best essay 

A presage ominous, portending still 6S5 

Its own dishonour by a worse relapse. 

Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd 

So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, 

Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now 

Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause 630 

Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd ; 

With shallow shifts and old devices, worn 

And tatter'd in the service of debauch, 

Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight. 

" Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, 635 

And stor'd the earth so plenteously with means 
To gratify the hunger of his wish ; 
And doth he reprobate, and will he damn 
The use of his own bounty ^ making first 
So frail a kind, and then enacting laws 640 

So strict, that less than perfect must despair .'' 
Falsehood ! which whoso but suspects of truth, 
Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. 
Do they themselves, who undertake for hire 
The teacher's ofRce, and dispense at large 645 

Their weekly dole of edifying strains. 
Attend to their own musick .' have they faith 
In what, with such solemnity of tone 
And gesture, they propound to our belief.'' 
Nay —Conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice 
Is but an instrument, on which the priest 651 

May play what tune he uleases. In the deed, 



116 THE TASK. 

The unequivocal, authentick deed, 
We find sound argument, we read the heart." 

Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong 
T' excuses in whicli reason has no part) 650 

Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd 
To live on terms of amity with vice, 
And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd, ' 
(As often as, libidinous discourse 660 

Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes 
Of theological and grave import,) 
They gain at last his unreserv'd assent ; 
Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge 
Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, 665 

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, 
Or nothing much, his constancy in ill ; 
Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease ; 
'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. 
Haste, now, philosopher, and set him free. 670 

Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear 
Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth 
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, 
Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps 
Directly to the first and only fair. 675 

Spare not in such a cause. Spend itll the pow'rs 
Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise ; 
Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, 
And with poetick trappings grace thy prose. 
Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse. — 680 

Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high sounding brass, 
Smitten in vain ! such musick cannot charm 
The eclipse, that mtercepts truth's heav'nly beam 
And chills and darkens a wide wandring soul. 
The still small voice is v;anted. He must speak, 685 
Whose word leaps forth at once to its eifect ; 
Who calls for things that are not, and they come. 

Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change 
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech 
And stately tone of moralists, who boast 699 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 117 
As if, like him of fabulous renown, 
They had indeed ability to smooth 
The shag of savage nature, and were each 
An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song ; 
But transformation of apostate man 605 

From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, 
Is work for Him that made him. He alone, 
And he by means in philosophick eyes 
Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves 
The wonder ; humanizing what is brute 700 

In the lost kind, extracting from the lips 
Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength 
By weakness, and hostility by love. 

Patriots have toil'd, and, in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 705 

Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historick muse, 
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
To latest times ; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 710 

To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust : 
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, 
To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, 
Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, 
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 715 

And, for a time, ensure to his lov'd land 
The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, 
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed 
In confirmation of the noblest claim — 720 

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth. 
To walk with God, to be divinely free, 
To soar, and to anticipate the skies. 
Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown, 
Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, 725 

And chas'd them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew 
— No marble tells us whither. With their names 
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : 



118 THE TASK. 

And history, so warm on meaner themes, 

Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 730 

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 

But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.* 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, 735 

Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 740 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy 
With a propriety that none can feel, 
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, 744 

Can hft to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye. 
And smiling say—" My Father made them all !" 
Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
And by an emphasis of interest his. 
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 750 

Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love. 
That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world 
So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man .■' 
Yes — ^ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 755 

The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, 
A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd 
Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 760 

Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
And has a richer use of yours than you. 
He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth 
Of no mean city ; planned or ere the hills 

* See Hume. 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 119 

V^ 9re built, the fountains open'd, or the sea, 7G5 

V\ ith all his roaring multitude of waves. 

HkS freedom is the same in ev'ry state ; 

Av.d no condition of this changeful life, 

So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day 

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 770 

For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, 

Nor penury, can cripple or confine. 

No nook so narrow, but he spreads them there 

Vv^ith ease, and is at large. Th' oppressor holds 

His body bound ; but knows not what a range 775 

His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 

And that to bind him is a vain attempt, 

Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. 

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st taste 
His works. Admitted once to his embrace, 780 

Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before : 
Thine eye shall be instructed ; and thine heart, 
Made pure, shall relish with divine delight, 
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. 
Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone, 785 
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 
It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow. 
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
From inland regions to the distant main. 790 

Man views it, and admires ; but rests content 
With what he views. The landscape has his praise, 
But not its author. Unconccrn'd who form'd 
The Paradise he sees, he finds it such. 
And such well pleas'd to find it, asks no more. 795 
Not so the mind that has been touch 'd from Heav*n, 
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught 
To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, 
Fair as it is, existed ere it was. 

Nor for its own sake merely, but for his 800 

Much more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise ; 
Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought. 



120 THE TASK. 

To earth's acknowledg'd sov'reign, finds at once 

Its only just proprietor in Him. 

The soul that sees him, or receives sublim'd 806 

New faculties, or learns at least t' employ 

More worthily the powers she own'd before, 

Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze 

Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 

A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 810 

Terrestrial in the vast and the minute j 

The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 

Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, 

And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 

Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds 815 

With those fair ministers of light to man, 

That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, 

Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they 

With which Heaven rang, when every star, in haste 

To gratulate the new-created earth, 820 

Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God 

Shouted for joy. — '• Tell me, ye shining hosts, 

That navigate a sea that knows no storms, 

Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, 

If from your elevation, whence ye view 825 

Distinctly scenes invisible to man, 

And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet 

Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 

Favour'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb 

And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 830 

And to possess a brighter Heaven than yours ? 

As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, 

Pants to return, and when he sees afar 

His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks, 

From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 835 

Radiant with joy toward the happy land; 

So I with animated hopes behold, 

And many an aching wish, your beamy fires. 

That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 

Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home 840 



THE WINTER MORNING WALK 121 
From toilsome life to never-ending rest. 
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires 
That give assurance of their own success, 
And that, infiis'd from Heaven, must thither tend." 

So reads he Nature, whom the lamp of truth 845 
Dluminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word ! 
Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost, 
With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt, 
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built 
With means that were iioi, till by thee employ'd, 850 
Worlds that had never been, hadst thou in strength 
Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r 
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
That hear not, or receive not their report. 855 

In vain thy creatures testify of thee, 
Till thou proclaim thyself Theirs is indeed 
A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine, 
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 
And with the boon gives talents for its use. 860 

Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
Possess the heart, and fables false as hell : 
Yet deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. 
We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, 
The glory of thy work ; which yet appears 866 

Perfect and unimi)eachabl3 of blame, 
Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd 
Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. 
But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign'st : 870 
Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r 
(If pow'r she be, that works but to confound) 
To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 
Instruction, and inventing to ourselves 875 

Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that sleep, 
Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage. 

Vol. II. 11 



129 THE TASK. 

Thee we reject, unable to abide 

Thy purit)'^, till pure as thou art pure, 880 , 

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, ' 

For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 

Then we are free. Then libert}', like day, 

Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heav'n 

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 885 

A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, 

Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of song, 

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works ; 

Which he that hears it, with a shout repeats, 

And adds his rapture to the general praise ! 890 

In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide 

Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 

The author of her beauties, who, retir'd 

Behind his bwn creation, works unseen 

By the impure, and hears his powT denied : 895 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds. 

Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 

From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 

At random, without honour, hope, or peace. 

From thee is all that sooths the life of man, 900 

His high endeavour, and his glad success, 

His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 

But O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 

Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 

Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 905 

And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 



THE TASK, 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



argume?;t of the sixth book 

Bella at a distance — Tlieir effect — A fine noon in winter — A shel- 
tered walk — Meditation better tlian books — Our familiarity with 
the course of Nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is — 
The transformation thai Spring effects in a shrubbery, described 
— A mistake concerning the course of Nature corrected — God 
maintains it by an unremitted act — The amusements fashionable 
at this hour of the day reproved — Animals happy, a delight- 
ful sight — Origin of cruelty to animals — That it is a great 
crime pro^'ed from Scripture — That proof illustrated by a tale— 
A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of 
them — Their good and useful i)roj)erties insisted on — Apology 
for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals — Instances 
of man's extravagant praise of man — The groans of the crea- 
tion shall have an end — A view taken of the restoration of all 
things — An invocation and an invitation of Him 'vho shall bring 
it to pass — The retired man vindicated from the charge of ue<3- 
lessness — Conclusion. 



THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 

And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd 

With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave ; 

Some chord in unison with what we hear 

Is toucli'd within us, and the heart replies, 5 

How soft the rausick of those village bells, 

Falling at intervals upon the ear 

In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 

Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 10 



124 THE TASK. 

With easy force it opens all the cells 

Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I have hoard 

A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 

And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 15 

That in a few short moments I retrace 

(As in a map the voyager his course) 

The windings of my way through many years. 

Short as in retrospect the journey seems, 

It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path, 20 

And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 

Mov'd many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. 

Yet feeling present evils, while the past 

Faintly impress the mind or not at all, 

How readily we wish time spent revok'd, 25 

That we might try the ground again, where once 

(Through inexperience as we now perceive) 

We miss'd that happiness we might liave found ! 

Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend! 

A father, whose authority, in show 30 

When most severe, and must'ring all its force, 

Was but the graver countenance of love ; 

Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might low'r, 

And utter now and then an awful voice, 

But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 35 

Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. 

We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand 

That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd 

By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd 

His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent 40 

That converse which we now in vain regret. 

How gladly would the man recall to life 

The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too, 

That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still. 

Might he demand them at the gates of death. 45 

Sorrow has, since they went, subdu'd and tara'd 

The playful humour : he could now endure, 

(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears,) 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 125 
And feel a parent's presence no resti*aint. 
But not to understand a treasures worth, 50 

Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, 
Is cause of half the povery we feel, 
And makes the World the wilderness it is. 
The few that pray at all, pray oft arniss, 
And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, 55 
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

The night was winter in its roughest mood ; 
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 60 
The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
Again the harmony conies o'er the vale ; 65 

And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r, 
Whence all the musick. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
And settle in soft musings as I tread 
The v.-alk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 70 

Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
The roof, though moveable through all its length 
As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd, 
And, intercepting in their silent fall 
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 75 

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought 
The red-breast warbles still, but is content 
With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: 
Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 80 
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves belo\v. 
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 85 
May give a useful lesson to the head, 
11* 



126 THE TASK. 

And Learning wiser grow without liis books. 

Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 

Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells 

In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 90 

Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 

Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, 

The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, 

Till smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place, 

Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. 05 

Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much ; 

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 

Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 

By which the magick art of shrewder wits 

Hold an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. lOO 

Some to the fascination of a name, 

Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the style 

Infatuates, and through labyrintlis and wilds 

Of errour leads them, by a tune entranc'd. 

While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 105 

The insupportable fatigue of thought. 

And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choico 

The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 

But tree and rivulets, whose rapid course 

Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, 110 

And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, 

And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time 

Peeps through the moss, that clothes the hawthorn 

root. 
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, 
Not shy, as in the world, and to be won 115 

By slow solic'.tation, seize at once 
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. 

What prodigies can pow'r divine perform 
More grand than it produces year by year, 
And all in sight of inattentive man .'' 120 

Familiar with th' effect, we slight the cause, 
And in the constancy of Nature's course, 
The regular return of genial months, 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 127 
And renovation of a faded world, 
See nought to wonder at. Should God again, 125 
As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race 
Of th' undeviating and punctual sun, 
How would the world admire ! But speaks it less 
An agency divine, to make him know 
His moment when to sink and when to rise^ 130 

Age after age, than to arrest his course ? 
All we behold is miracle ; but seen 
So duly, all is miracle in vain. 
Where now the vital energy, that mov'd 
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph 135 
Through th' imperceptible meand'ring veins 
Of leaf and flovv'r ? It sleeps ; and th' icy touch 
Of unprolifick winter has impress'd 
A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide. 
But let the months go round, a few short months, 140 
And all shall be restor'd. These naked shoots, 
Barren as lances, among which the wind 
Makes wintry musick, sighing as it goes, 
Shall put their graceful foliage on again. 
And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 145 

Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. 
Then each in its peculiar honours clad, 
Shall publish even to the distant eye 
Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich 
In streaming gold ; syringa, iv'ry pure ; 150 

The scentless and the scented rose ; this red 
And of a humbler growth, the otlier* tall. 
And throwing up into the darkest gloora 
Of neighb'ring cypress, or more sable yew, 
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf, 155 

That the wind severs from the broken wave j 
The lilack, various in array, now white. 
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head nov/ set 
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if 
Studious of ornament, yet unresolv'd 160 

■* The Guelder Rose. 



128 THE TASK. 

Which hue she most approv'd, she chose iheni all; 
Copious of flowers, the woodbine, pale and wan, 
But well compensating her sickly looks 
With never cloying odours, early and late ; 
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm lo5 

Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, 
That scarce a leaf appears ; mezereon, too, 
Though leafless, well-attir'd and thick beset 
With blushing wreaths, investing every spray; 
Althaea with the purple eye ; the broom 170 

Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd. 
Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all 
The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, 
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf 
Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more 175 

The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars. — 
These have been, and these shall be in their day , 
And ail this uniform uncolour"d scene 
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load. 
And flush into variety again. 180 

From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, 
Is Nature's progress, when she lectures man 
Jii heav'nly truth ; evincing, as she makes 
The grand transition, that their lives and works 
A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 185 

The beauties of the wilderness are his, 
That makes so gay the solitary place, 
"Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, 
That cultivation glories in, are his. 
He sets the bright procession on its way, 190 

And marshals all the order of the year ; 
He marks the bounds, which winter may not pass, 
And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case, 
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, 
Uninjur'd, with inimitable art ; 195 

And, ere one flow'ry season fades and dies, 
Designs the blooming wonders of the next. 
Some say that in the origin of things. 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 129 

When all creation started into birth, 

The infant elements receiv'd a law 200 

From which they swerv'd not since. That under force 

Of that controlling ordinance they move, 

And need not His immediate hand who first 

Prescrib'd their course, to regulate it now. 

Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 205 

Th' encumbrance of his own concerns, and spare 

The great artificer of all that moves 

The stress of a continual act, the pain 

Of unremitted vigilance and care, 

As too laborious and severe a task. 210 

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems. 

To span omnipotence, and measure might 

That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 

And standard of his own, that is to-\?ay, 

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 315 

But how should matter occupy a charge. 

Dull as it is, and satisfy a law 

So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, 

And under pressure of some conscious cause ? 220 

The Lord of all, himself through all difFus'd, 

Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. 

Nature is but a name for an effect, 

Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, 

By which the mighty process is maintain'd, 225 

Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 

Slow circling ages are as transient days ; 

Whose work is without labour ; whose designs 

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts ; 

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 230 

Him blind antiquity profan'd, not serv'd. 

With self-taught rites, and under various names, 

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 

And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peopling earth 

With tutelary goddesses and gods, 235 

That were not ; and commending as they would 



130 THE TASK. 

To each some province, garden, field, or grove. 
But all are under one. One spirit — His 
Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows- 
Rules universal nature. Not a flower 240 
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 245 
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 
Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds 
Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, 
Of what he views of beautiful or grand 
In nature, from the broad majestick oak 250 
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 
Prompts with remembrance of a present God 
His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd. 
Makes all still fairer As with him no scene 
Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. 255 
Though winter had been r.one, had man been true 
And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, 
Yet not in vengeance ; as this smiling sky. 
So soon succeeding such an angry night, 
And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream 260 
Recov'ring fast its liquid musick, prove. 

Who, then, that has a mind well strung and tun d 
To contemplation, and within his reach 
A scene so friendly to his fav'rite task. 
Would waste attention at the checker'd board. 265 
His host of wooden warriours to and fro 
Marching and countermarching, with an eyo 
As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridg'd 
And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand 
Trembling, as if eternity were hung 270 

In balance on his conduct of a pin ? 
Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, 
Who pant with application misapplied 
To trivial toys, and, pushing iv'ry balls 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 131 
Across a velvet level, feel a joy 275 

Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds 
Its destin'd goal, of difficult access. 
Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon 
To miss, the mercer's plague from shop to shop 
. Wand'ring, and litt'ring with unfolded silks 280 

The polish'd counter, and approving none, 
Or promising with smiles to call again. 
Nor him, who by his vanity seduc'd, 
And sooth'd into a dream, that he discerns 
The difi^rence of a Guido from a daub, 285 

Frequents the crowded auction : station'd there 
As duly as the Langford of the show, 
With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, 
And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant 
And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease : 290 
Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls. 
He notes it in his book, then raps his box. 
Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate, 
That he has let it pass — but never bids I 

Here unmolested, through whatever sign 295 

The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, 
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
Nor stranger intermeddling vj'iih. my joy. 
E'en in the spring and playtime of the year, 
That calls the unwonted villager abroad 300 

With all her little ones, a sportive train. 
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook— 
These shades are all my own. The tim'rous hare, 
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 306 

Scarce shuns me ; and the stock-dove, unalarm'd, 
Sits cooing in the pinetree, nor suspends 
His long love ditty for my near approach. 
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, 310 

That age or injury has hollow'd deep, 
Wheri*, on his bed of ^vool and matted leaves, 



132 THE TASK. 

Ho has outslept the winter, ventures forth, 

To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, 

The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play ; 315 

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, 

Ascends the ncighb'ring beech ; there whisks his brush, 

And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud, , 

With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, 

And anger insignificantly fierce. 320 

The heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
For human fellowship, as being void 
Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike 
To love and friendship both, that is not pleas'd 
With sight of animals enjoying life, 325 

Nor feels their happiness augment his own. 
The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade 
When none pursues, through mere delight of heart 
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; 
The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, 330 

That skims the spacious meadow at full speed. 
Then stops, and snorts, and, throwing high his heels, 
Starts to the voluntary race again ; 
The very kine that gambol at high noon, 
The total herd receiving first from one, 335 

That leads the dance, a summons to be gay. 
Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth 
Their eflTorts, yet resolv'd, with one consent, 
To give such act and utt'rance as they may 
To ecstasy too big to be suppress'd — 340 

These, and a thousand images of bliss, 
With which kind Nature graces ev'ry scene. 

Where cruel man defeats not her design, 
Impart to the benevolent, who wish 

All that are capable of pleasure pleas'd, 345 

A far superiour happiness to theirs. 

The comfort of a reasonable joy. 

Man scarce had ris'n, obedient to his call 

Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, 

When he was crown'd as never king was since. 350 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 133 

God set the diadem upon his head, 
And angel choirs attended. Wond'ring stood 
The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, 
All happy, and all perfect in their kind, 
The creatures, summon'd from their various haunts, 
To see their sov'reign, and confess his sway. 35G 

Vast was his empire, absolute his pow'r, 
Or bounded only by a law, whose force 
'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel 
And ovv^n — the law of universal love. 360 

He rul'd with meekness, they obey'd with joy ; 
No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, 
And no distrust of his intent in theirs. 
So Eden v/as a scene of harmless sport, 
Where kindness on his part who rul'd the whole, 365 
Begat a tranquil confidence in all, 
And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. 
But sin marr'd all ; and the revolt of man, 
That source of evils not exhausted yet. 
Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. 370 

Garden of God, how terrible the change 
Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! Ev'ry heart, 
Each animal, of ev'ry name, conceiv'd 
A jealousy and an instinctive fear. 
And, conscious of some danger, either fled 375 

Precipitate the loath'd abode of man. 
Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort, 
As taught him too to tremble in his turn. 
Thus harmony and family accord 
Were driv'n from Paradise ; and in that hour 380 

The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd 
To such gigantick and enormous growth, 
Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. 
Hence date the persecution and the pain, 
That man inflicts on all inferiour kinds, 38.5 

Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, 
To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, 
Or his base gluttony, are causes good 
Vol. II. 12 



IM THE TASK. 

And just in his account, why bird and beast 

Should suiFer torture, and the streams be died 890 

With blood of their inhabitants impal'd. 

Earth groans beneath the burden of a war 

Wag'd with defenceless innocence, while he, 

Not satisfied to prey on all around. 

Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs 395 

Needless, and first torments ere he devours. 

Now happiest they that occupy the scenes 

The most remote from his abhorr'd resort, 

Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, 

They fear'd, and as his perfect image, lov'd. 400 

The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves, 

Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, 

Unvisited by man. There they are free, 

And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd; 

Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. 405 

Wo to the tyrant, if he dare intrude 

Within the confines of their wild domain : 

The lion tells him — I am monarch here — 

And if he spare him, spares him on the terms 

Of royal mercy, and through gen'rous scorn 410 

To rend a victim trembling at his foot. 

In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, 

Or by necessity constrain'd, they live 

Dependent upon man ; those in his fields, 

These at his crib, and some beneath his roof. 415 

They prove too often at how dear a rate 

He sells protection — Witness at his foot 

The spaniel dying for some venial fault 

Under dissection of the knotted scourge ; 

Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells 420 

Driv'n to the slaughter, goaded, as he rtins. 

To madness ; while the savage at his heels 

Laughs at the frantick sufPrer's fury, spent 

Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. 

Ho too is witness, noblest of the train 435 

That wait on man. the flight-performing horse ; 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 135 

With unsuspecting readiness he takes 

His murd'rcr on his back, and, push'd all day 

With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life, 

To the far distant goal arrives and dies. 430 

So little mercy shows who needs so much ! 

Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, 

Denounce no doom on the delinquent ? None. 

He lives and o'er his brimming beaker boasts 

(As if barbarity were high desert,) 435 

Th' inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise 

Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose 

The honours of his matchless horse his own. 

But many a crime, deem'd innocent on earth, 

Is register'd in Heav'n ; and these no doubt, 440 

Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. 

Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, 

But God will never. When he charg'd the Jew 

T' assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise ; 

And when the bush-exploring boy, that seiz'd 445 

The young, to let the parent bird go free ; 

Prov'd he not plainly, that his meaner works 

Are yet his care, and have an int'rest all, 

All, in the universal Father's love ? 

On Noah, and in him on all mankind, 450 

The charter was conferr'd by which we hold 

The flesh of animals in fee, and claim 

O'er all we feed on pow'r of life and death. 

But read the instrument, and mark it well : 

Th' oppression of a tyrannous control 455 

Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield, 

Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, 

Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute .'' 

The Governor of all, himself to all 
Bo bountiful, in whose attentive ear 460 

The unfledg'd raven and the lion's whelp 
Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs 
Of hunger unassuag'd, has interpos'd, 
Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite 



136 THE TASK. 

Th' injurious trampler upon Nature's law, 465 

That claims forbearance even for a brute. 

He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart ; 

And, prophet as he was, he might not strike 

The blameless animal, without rebuke, 

On which he rode. Her opportune offence 470 

Sav'd him, or the unrelenting seer had died. 

He sees that human equity is slack 

To interfere, though in so just a cause : 

And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb 

And helpless victims with a sense so keen 475 

Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength 

And such sagacity to take revenge, 

That oft the beast has seem'd to judge the man. 

An ancient, not a legendary tale. 

By one of sound intelligence rehears'd, 480 

(If such who plead for Providence may seem 

In modern eyes,) shall make the doctrine clear. 

Where England, stretch'd towards the setting sun, 
Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, 
Dwelt young Misagathus ; a scorner he 485 

Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, 
Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
He journey 'd : and his chance was, as he went. 
To join a trav'ller, of far different note, 
Evander, fam'd for piety, for years 490 

Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. 
Fame had not left the venerable man 
A stranger to the manners of the youth, 
Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. 
Their way was on the margin of the land, 495 

O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base 
Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. 
The charity that warm'd his heart, was mov'd 
At sight of the man-monster. With a smile 
Gentle and affable, and full of grace, 500 

As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 137 

Not harldly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, 
But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet 
" And dost thou dream," th' impenetrable man 505 
Exclaim'd, '* that me the lullabies of age, 
And fantasies of dotards, such as thou, 
Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me ? 
Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave 
Need no such aids as superstition lends 510 

** To steel their hearts against the dread of death.' 
He spoke, and to the precipice at hand 
Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, 
And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought 
Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. 515 

But though the felon on his back could dare 
The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed 
Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly round, 
Or ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, 
Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will. 5JiO 

The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd 
By med'cine well applied, but without grace 
The heart's insanity admits no cure. 
Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd 
His horrible intent, again he sought 525 

Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, 
With sounding whip, and rowels died in blood, 
But still in vain. The Providence that meant 
A longer date to the far nobler beast, 
Spar'd yet again th' ignobler for his sake. 530 

And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere 
Incurable obduracy evinc'd, 

His rage grew cool, and, pleas'd perhaps t' have earn'd 
So cheaply, the renown of that attempt, 
With looks of some complacence he resum'd 535 

His road, deriding much the blank amaze 
Of good Evander, still where he was left 
Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. 
So on they far'd. Discourse on other themes 
Ensuing seem'd t' obliterate the past ; 540 

12* 



138 THE TASK. 

And tamer far for so much fury shown, 

(As is the course of rash and fiery men,) 

The rude companion smil'd, as if transfbrm'd — 

But 'twas a transient cahii. A storm was near 

An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. 545 

The impious challenger of Pow'r divine 

Was now to learn, that Heav'n, though slow to wrath, 

is never with impunity defied. 

His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, 

Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, 550 

Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd, 

Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood. 

At once the shock unseated him : he flew 

Sheer o'er the craggy barrier ; and immers'd 

Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, 555 

The death he had deserv'd, and died alone. 

So God wrought double justice ; made the fool 

The victim of his own tremendous choice, 

And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. 

I would not enter on my list of friends, 560 

(Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, 
Yet wanting sensibiiity,) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
That crawls at ev'ning in the publick path ; 565 

But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, 
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 
And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 570 

Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove, 
The chamber, or refectory, may die ; 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 
And guiltless of offence, they range the air, 575 

Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
There they are privileg'd ; and he that hunts 
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 139 

Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, 

Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 580 

The sum is this : If man's convenience, health, 

Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims 

Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 

Else they are all — the meanest things that are— 

As free to live, and to enjoy that life, 585 

As God was free to form them at the first. 

Who in his sov'reign wisdom made them all, 

ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 

To love it too. The spring time of our years 

Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd in most 590 

By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 

To check them. But, alas ! none sooner shoots, 

If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, 

Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 

Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 595 

And righteous limitation of its act, 

By which Heav"n moves in pard'ning guilty man j 

And he that shows none, being ripe in years, 

And conscious of the outrage he commits, 

Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. 600 

Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more 
By our capacity of grace divine, 
From creatures, that exist but for our sake, 
Which having serv'd us, perish, we are held 
Accountable ; and God some future day 605 

Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse 
Of what he deems no mean nor trivial trust. 
Superiour as we are, they yet depend 
Not more on human help than we on theirs. 
Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were giv'n 610 
In aid of our defects. In some are found 
Such teachable and apprehensive parts. 
That man's attainments in his own concerns, 
Match'd with th' expertness of the brutes in theirs, 
Are ofttiraes vanquish'd and throv/n far behind. 615 
Some show that nice sagacity of smell. 



140 THE TASK. 

And read with such discernment, in the port 

And figure of the man, his secret aim, 

That oft we owe our safety to a skill 

We could not teach, and must despair to learn. 620 

But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop 

To quadruped instructers many a good 

And useful quality, and virtue too. 

Rarely exemplified among ourselves. 

Attachment never to be wean'd, or chang'd ^25 

By any change of fortune : proof alike 

Against unkindness, absence, and neglect J 

Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat 

Can movo or warp ; and gratitude for small 

And trivial favours, lasting as the life, 630 

And glist'ning even in the dying eye. 

Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms 

Wins publick honour ; and ten thousand sit 

Patiently present at a sacred song. 

Commemoration mad ; content to hear 635 

(O wonderful effect of musick's power !) 

Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake ! 

But Jess, methinks, than sacrilege might serve— 

(For, was it less, what heathen would have dar'd 

To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, 640 

And hang it up in honour of a man ?) 

Much less might serve, when all that we design 

Is but to gratJfy an itching ear. 

And give the day to a musician's praise. 

Remember Handel ? Who, that was not born 645 

Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets. 

Or can, the more than Homer of his age ? 

Yes — we remember him ; and while we praise 

A talent so divine, remember too 

That His most holy book from whom it came, 650 

Was never meant, was never us'd before, 

To buckram out the mem'ry of a man. 

But hush ! — the Masc perhaps is too severe 

And with a gravity beyond the size 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 141 

And measure of th' olFence, rebukes a deed 655 

Less impious than absurd, and owing n ore 

To want of judgment tlian to wrong design 

So in the chapel of old Ely House, 

When wand'ring Charles, who meant to be the third, 

Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, G60 

The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, 

And eke did roar right merrily, two staves. 

Sung to the praise and glory of King Geo'ge ! 

— Man praises man: and Garrick's mem'ry next, 

When time hath somewhat mellow'd it, and made 665 

The idol of our worship while he liv'd 

The God of our idolatry once more, 

Shall have its altar ; and the world shall go 

In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. 

The theatre too small, shall suffocate 670 

Its squeez'd contents, and more than it admits 

Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return 

Ungratified ; for there some noble lord 

Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch, 

Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, 675 

And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, 

To show the world how Garrick did not act. 

For Garrick was a w^orshippcr himself; 

He drew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites 

And solemn ceremonial of the day, 680 

And call'd the world to worship on the banks 

Of Avon, fam'd in song. Ah, pleasant proof 

That piety has still in human hearts 

Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. 

The mulb'rry tree was hung with blooming wreaths ; 

The mulb'rry tree stood centre of the dance ; 686 

The mulb'rry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs ; 

And from his touchwood trunk the mulb'rry tree 

Supplied such relicks as devotion holds 

Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. 690 

So 'twas a hallow'd time : decorum reign'd, 

And mirth without offence. No few return'd, 



142 THE TASK. 

Doubtless, much edified, and all refresh'd, 

— Man praises man. The rabble all alive 

From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, 695 

Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, 

A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes. 

Some shout him, and some hang upon his car, 

To gaze in 's eyes, and bless him. Maidens wave 

Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy : 700 

While others, not so satisfied, unhorse 

The gilded equipage, and turning loose 

His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. 

Why .? what has charm'd them ? Hath he saved the 

state ? 
No. Doth he purpose its salvation .'' No. 705 

Enchanting novelty, that moon at full. 
That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head 
That is not sound, and perfect, hath in theirs 
Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, 
And his own cattle must sufiice him soon. 710 

Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, 
And dedicate a tribute, in its use 
And just direction sacred, to a thing 
Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there. 
Encomium in old time was poet's work ; 716 

But poets, having lavishly long since 
Exhausted all materials of the art, 
The task now falls into the publick hand ; 
And I contented with an humbler theme, 
Have pour'd my stream of panegyrick down 780 

The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds 
Among her lovely works with a secure 
And unambitious course, reflecting clear, 
If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes. 
And I am recompensed, and deem the toils 725 

Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine 
May stand between an animal and wo, 
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. 
The groans of Nature in this nether world. 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 143 
Which heav'n has hoard for ages, have an end. 730 
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, 
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp ; 
The time of rest, the promis'd sabbath, comes 
Six thousand years of sorrow have well nig 
FulfiU'd their tardy and disastrous course 735 

Over a sinful world ; and what remains 
Of this tempestuous state of human things 
[s merely as the working of a sea 
Before a calm that rocks itself to rest ; 
For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds 740 
j The dust that waits upon his sultry march, 

I When sin hath mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, 

Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
Propitious in his chariot pav'd with love ; 
And what his storms have blasted and detac'd 745 
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. 
Sweet is the harp of prophecy ; too sweet 
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch ; 
Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
To meaner musick, and not suffer loss. 750 

But when a poet, or when one like me, 
Happy to rove among poetick flow'rs. 
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last 
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair. 
Such i& the impulse and the spur he feels, 755 

To give it praise proportion'd to its worth, 
That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems 
The labour, were a task more arduous still. 
O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, 
Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ! which who can see, 760 
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 
His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy ? 
Rivers of gladness water all the earth. 
And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach 
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field 765 

Laughs with abundance ; and the land, once lean, 



144 THE TASK. 

Or fertile only in its own disgrace, 

Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd. 

The various seasons woven into one, 

And that one season an eternal spring, 770 

The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence; 

For there is none to covet, all are full, ! 

The lion, and the libbard, and the bear, | 

Graze with the fearless flocks ; all bask at noon I 

Together, or all gambol in the shade 775 \ 

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream) 

Antipathies are none. No foe to man ! 

Lurks in the serpent now ; the mother sees, I 

And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand ■ 

Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, 780 j 

To stroke his azure neck, or to receive ! 

The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. I 

All creatures worship man, and all mankind i 

One Lord, one Father. Errour has no place ; | 

That creeping pestilence is driv'n away ; 785 j 

The breath of Heav'n has chas'd it. In the heart j 

No passion touches a discordant string, i 

But all is harmony and love. Disease \ 

Is not : the pure and uncontaminate blood j 

Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 790 

One song employs all nations ; and all cry, 

'' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !" 

The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 

Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 

From distant mountains catch the flying joy, 795 

Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 

Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. 

Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 

See Salem built, the labour of a God ! 

Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; 800 

All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 

Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 

Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 145 

And endless her increase. Thy rams are there 

Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ;* 805 

The looms of Ornius, and the mines of Ind, 

And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. 

Praise is in all her gates ; upon her walls, 

And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, 

Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 810 

Kneels with the native of the farthest west ; 

And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 

And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 

Into all lands. From ev'ry clime they come 

To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, 815 

O Sion ! an assembly such as Earth 

Saw never, such as Heav'n stoops down to see. 

Thus heav'nward all things tend. For all were once 
Perfect, and all must be at length restor'd. 
So God has greatly purpos'd ; who would else 820 
In his dishonour'd works himself endure 
Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress. 
Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world, 
Ye slow-revolving seasons ! we would sec 
(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) 825 

A world, that does not dread a,nd hate his laws, 
And suffer for its crime ; would learn how fair 
The creature is, that God pronounces good ; 
How pleasant in itself what pleases him. 
Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a sting : 830 

Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow'fs 
And e'en the joy, that haply some poor heart 
Derives from Heav'n, pure as the fountain is, 
Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint 
From touch of human lips, at best impure. 835 

O for a world in principle as chaste 
As this is gross and selfish ! over which 

* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progeuitors 
of the Arabs in the prophetick Scripture here alluded to, may 
be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles al 
large. 

VoT.. II. 13 



146 THE TASK. 

Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, 

That govern all things here, should'ring aside 

The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her 840 

To seek a refuge from the tongue of Strife 

In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men ; 

Where Violence shall never lift the sword, 

Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong. 

Leaving the poor no remedy but tears : 845 

Where he that fills an office, shall esteem 

Th' occasion it presents of doing good 

More than the perquisite : where Law shall speak 

Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts 

And Equity ; not jealous more to guard 850 

A worthless form than to decide aright : 

Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse. 

Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace) 

With lean performance ape the work of Love ! 

Come, then, and, added to thy many crowns, 855 
Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, 
Thou who alone art worthy ! It was thine 
By ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth ; 
And thou hast made it thine by purchase since ; 
And o'erpaid its value with thy blood. 860 

Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and in their hearts 
Thy title is engraven with a pen 
Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love. 
Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and thy delay 
Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see 865 
The dawn of thy last advent, long desir'd, 
Would creep into the bowels of the hills. 
And flee for safety to the falling rocks. 
'^he very spirit of the world is tir'd 
Jf its own taunting question, ask'd so long, 870 

" "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ?" 
The infidel has shot his bolts away. 
Till his exhausted quiver yielding none, 
He gleans the blunted shafts, that have recoil'd, 
And aims them at the shield of Truth again. 875 



THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 147 
The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, 
That hides divinity from mortal eyes ; 
And all the mysteries to faith propos'd, 
Insulted and traduc'd are cast aside, 
As useless, to the moles and to the bats. 8S0 

They novi^ arc deem'd the faithful, and arc prais'd, 
Who, constant only in rejecting Thee, 
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, 
And quit their office for their errour's sake. 
Blind and in love with darkness ! yet e'en these 885 
Worthy, compared with sycophants, who knee 
Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man,* 
So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare 
The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, 
And what they will. All pastors are alike 890 

To wand'ring sheep, resolv'd to follow none. 
Two gods divide them all — Pleasure and Gain ; 
For these they live, they sacrifice to these, 
And in their service wage perpetual war 894 

With Conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, 
And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth 
To prey upon each other ; stubborn, fierce. 
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. 
Thy prophets speak of such ; and noting down 
The features of the last degen'rate times, 900 

Exhibit every lineament of these. 
Come, then, and, added to thy many crowns, 
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest, 
Due to thy last and most effectual work, 
Th}-^ word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world ! 905 

He is the happy man, whose life e'en now 
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; 
Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, 
Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose. 
Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, the fruit 
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, 911 

Prepare for happiness ; bespeak him one 
Content indeed to sojourn while he must 



148 THE TASK. 

Below the skies, but having there his homo. 

The world o'erlooks him in her busy search 915 

Of objects more illustrious in her view ; 

And occupied as earnestly as she, 

Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the World. 

She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not j 

He seeks not hers, for he has prov'd them vain. 920 

He cannot skim the ground like summer birds 

Pursuing gilded flies j and such he deems 

Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. 

Therefore in contemplation is his bliss. 

Whose pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from earth 

She makes familiar with a Heav'n unseen, 926 

And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd. 

Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, 

And censur'd oft as useless. Stillest streams 

Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 930 

That flutters least is longest on the wing. 

Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has rais'd, 

Or what achievements of immortal fame 

He purposes, and he shall answer — None. 

His warfare is within. There, unfatigu'd, 935 

His fervent spirit labours. There he fights 

And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself 

And never-with'ring wreaths, compar'd with which| 

The laurels that a Coesar reaps are weeds. 

Perhaps the self-approving, haughty world, 940 

That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks 

Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see, 

Deems him a cipher in the works of God, 

Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, 

Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes 945 

Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring 

And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, 

When, Isaac like, the solitary saint 

Walks forth to meditate at eventide, 

And think on her who thinks not for herself. 960 

Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns 



THE AVINTER WALK AT NOON. 149 

Of little worth, an idler in the best, 
If, author of no mischief and some good, 
He seeks his proper happiness by means 
That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. 955 

Nor, thoucrh he tread the secret path of life, 
Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease. 
Account him an encumbrance on the state, 
Receiving benefits, and rend'ring none. 
His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphere 
Shine with his fair example ; and though small 961 
His influence, if that influence all be spent 
In soothing sorrow, and in quenching strife, 
In aiding helpless indigence in works 
From which at least a grateful few derive 965 

Some taste of comfort in a world of wo ; 
Then let the supercilious great confess 
He serves his country, recompenses well 
The state beneath the shadow of whose vine 
He sits secure, and in the scale of life 970 

Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. 
The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, 
Must drop indeed the hope of publick praise ; 
But he may boast, what few that win it can, 
That if his country stand not by his skill, 975 

At least his follies have not wrought her fall. 
Polite Refinement offers him in vain 
Her golden tube, through which a sensual World 
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, 
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. 980 

Not that he peevishly rejects a mode. 
Because that World adopts it. If it bear 
The stamp and clear impression of good sense, 
And be not costly more than of true worth 
He puts it on, and for decorum sake 985 

Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. 
She judges of refinement by the eye ; 
He, by the test of conscience, and a heart 
Not soon deceiv'd ; aware, that what is base 
13* 



150 THE TASK. 

No polish can make sterling ; and that vice, 990 

Though well pcrfum'd and elegantly dress'd, 

Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flcw'rs, 

Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far 

For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. 

So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 995 

More golden than that age of fabled gold 

Renown'd in ancient song ; not vex'd with care 

Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd 

Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 

So glide ray life away ! and so at last, 1000 

My share of duties decently fulfill'd, 

May some disease, not tardy to perform 

Its destin'd office, yet with gentle stroke, 

Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat. 

Beneath the turf that I have often trod. 1005 

It shall not grieve me then, that once, when cali'd 

To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse, 

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair. 

With that light Task ; but soon, to please her more, 

Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, 1010 

Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit ; 

Rov'd far, and gather'd much ; some harsh, 'tis true, 

Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof. 

But wholesome, well digested ; grateful some 

To palates that can taste immortal truth ; 1015 

Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd. 

But all is in His hand whose praise I seek. 

In vain the poet sings, and the World hears, 

If he regard not, though divine the theme. 

'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime 1020 

And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre. 

To charm His ear whose eye is on the heart, 

Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, 

Whose approbation — prosper even mine. 



( 151 ) 



EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESa 



DEAR JOSEPH— five and twenty years ago— 
Alas, how time escapes ! 'tis even so — 
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, 
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
A tedious hour — and now we never meet .' 
As some grave gentleman in Terence says, 
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days,) 
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings — 
Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
True. Clianges will befall, and friends may part 
But distance only cannot change the heart ; 
And, where I call'd to prove th' assertion true, 
One proof should serve— a reference to you. 

Whence comes it, then, that in the vane of life, 
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, 
We find the friends we fancied we had won. 
Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none ? 
Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the touch ? 
No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. 

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
Swinging the parlour door upon its hinge. 
Dreading a negative, and overaw'd 
Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
Go, fellow, — whither ? — turning short about — 
Nay — Stay at home — you're always going out. 
'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
For what ? — An please you, sir, to see a friend.— 
A friend '. Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — 
Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all ray heart— 



152 EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
And fetch my cloak ; for, though the night be raw, 
T'll see him too — the first I ever saw. 

I knew the man, and knew liis nature mild, 
And was his plaything often when a child ; 
But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, 
Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
Perhaps his confidence just then betray 'd, 
His grief might prompt him with the speech he made 
Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth, 
The harmless play of pleasantr}?^ and mirth. 
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind 
P.espoke at least a man that knew mankind. 

But not to moralize too much, and strain, 
To prove an evil, of which all complain, 
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun.) 
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
Once on a time, an emp'ror, a wise man. 
No matter where, in China or Japan, 
Decreed, that whosoever should offend 
Against the well-known duties of a friend, 
Convic(.ed once, should ever after wear 
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
That all was naught within, and all found out 

O happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
Else; could a lav/ like that which I relate, 
Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ; 
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow 
Might traverse England safely to and fro. 
An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
Broadcloth without, and a warm heart v/ithin. 



TIROCINIUM 



OE, 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 



Ke^aAacov 6ti natSuai ophj rpo^f;.......PLATO. 

AfJX?/ itoXiTuaf aitaani vaav rpofa diog. laeet. 



TO THE 

REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN, 

RECTOR OF STOCK IN ESSEX) 

THE TUTOR OF HIS TWO SONS, 

THE FOLLOWING 

POZSIVE, 

KECOMMENDING PRIVATE TUITION, IN PREFERENCE 

TO AN EDUCATION AT SCHOOL, 

IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, 

WILLIAM COWPER 



Olney, JVbr. 6, 1784. 



TIROCINIUM. 



►•0«— 



IT is not from his form, in which we trace 
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, 
That man, the master of this globe, derives 
His right of empire over all that lives. 
That form, indeed, th' associate of a mind 5 

Vast in its pow'rs, ethereal in its kind — 
That form, the labour of almighty skill, 
Fram'd for the. service of a freeborn will, 
Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, 
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. 10 

Here is the state, the splendour, and the throne. 
An intellectual kingdom,- all her ov/n. 
For her the Mem'ry fills her ample page 
With truths pcur'd down from ev'ry distant age * 
For her amasses an unbounded store, 15 

The wisdom of great nations, now no more ; 
Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil ; 
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil ; 
When copiously supplied, then most enlarg'd, 
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharg'd. 20 

For her the Fancy, roving unconfin'd. 
The present muse of ev'ry pensive mind. 
Works magick wonders, adds a brighter hue 
To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. 
At her command winds rise, and waters roar, 25 

A^a-in she lays them slumbering on the shore ; 



15G TIROCINIUM : OR, 

With flow'r and fruit the wilderness supplies, 

Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. 

For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife. 

That Grace and Nature have to wage through life, 30 

Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, 

Appointed sage preceptor to the will, 

Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice 

Guides the decis,'cn of a doubtful choice. 

Why did the fiat of a God give birth 35 

To yon fair Sun, and his attendant Earth .'' 
And when, descending, he resigns the skies. 
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, 
Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, 
And owns her pow'r on ev'ry shore he laves ? 40 

Why do the seasons still enrich the year. 
Fruitful and young as in their first career .' 
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, 
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze ; 
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives 45 

Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 
Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews 
Die them at last in all their glowing hues — 
'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, 
Pow'r misemployed, munificence misplac'd, 50 

Had not its author dignified the plan, 
And crown'd it with the majesty ot man. 
Thus form'd, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught, 
Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, 
The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws 55 

Finds in a sober moment time to pause. 
To press th' important question on his heart, 
" Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art f" 
If man be what he seems, this hour a slave. 
The next mere dust and ashes in the grave ; 60 

Endu'd with reason only to descry 
His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; 
With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, 
The force he spends agaiHS+ their fury vain ; 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 157 

And if, soon after luring burn'd, by turns, 65 

With ev'ry lust with which frail Nature burns. 
His being end where death desolves the bond, 
The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond ; 
Then he of all that Nature has brought forth, 
Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, 70 
And useless while he lives and when he dies, 
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. 

Truths, that the learn'd pursue with eager thought, 
Are not important always as dear bought, 
Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, 75 
A childish waste of philosophick pains ; 
But truths, on which depends our main concern, 
That 'tis our shame and mis'ry not to learn, 
Shine by the side of ev'ry path we tread 
With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 80 

'Tis true, that if to trifle life away 
Down to the sunset of their latest day, 
Then perish on futurity's wide shore. 
Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, 
Were all that Heav'n requir'd of human kind, 85 

And all the plan their destiny design'd. 
What none could rev'rence alJ might justly blame, 
And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame . 
But reason heard, and nature well perus'd, 
At once the dreaming mind is disabus'd. 90 

If all we find possessing earth, sea, air. 
Reflect his attributes who plac'd them there. 
Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd 
Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing Mind, 
'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose t' invest 95 
With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, 
Receiv'd his nobler nature, and was Made 
Fit for the pow'r in which he stands array'd ; 
That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, 
He too might make his author's wisdom clear, 100 
Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, 
Suffer his justice in a world to come. 

Vol. H. 14 



158 TIROCINIUM : OR, 

This oncebeliev'd, 'twere logick misapplied, 

To prove a consequence by none denied, 

That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 105 

Betimes into tlie mould of heav'nly truth, 

That taught of God they may indeed be wise, 

Nor, ignorantly wand'ring, miss the skies. 

In early days the conscience has in most 
A quickness, which in later life is lost : 110 

Preserv'd from guilt by salutary fears. 
Or, guilty, soon relenting into tears. 
Too careless often, as our years proceed. 
What friends we sort with, or what books v/o read, 
Our parents yet exert a prudent care, 115 

To feed our infant minds with proper fare ; 
And wisel}' store the nurs'ry by degrees 
With wholesome learning, yet acquir'd vnth ease. 
Neatly secur'd from being soil'd or torn 
Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, 120 

A book, (to please us at a tender age 
'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page.) 
Presents the pray'r the Saviour deign'd to teach, 
Which children use, and parsons — when they preach. 
Lisping our syllables, we scramble next 125 

Through moral narrative, or sacred text ; 
And learn with wonder how this world began, 
Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man. 
Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, 
The wisest heads might agitate in vain. 130 

thou, whom, boriie on fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 

1 pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 135 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 

Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple style. 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well employ'd, and like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word ; 140 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS 159 

I name thee not, lest so despis'd a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame , 
Yet e'en In transitory life's late day, 
That mingles all my brown with sober gray, 
Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, 145 
And guides the progress of the soul to God. 
'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage 
Their childhood, pleas'd them at a riper age ; 
The man approving what had charm'd the boy, 
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy ; 150 

And not with curses on his heart, who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 
The stamp of artless piety impress'd 
By kind tuition on his yielding breast, 
The youth now bearded, and yet pert and raw, 155 
Regards with scorn, though once receiv'd with awe ; 
And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies. 
That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise. 
Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan 
Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man 160 

Touch but his nature in its ailing part, 
Assert the native evil of his heart. 
His pride resents the charge, although the proof 
Rise in his forehead,* and seem rank enough j 
Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross 165 

As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, 
The young apostate sickens at the view. 
And hates it with the malice of a Jew. 

How weak the barrier of mere Nature proves, 
Oppos'd against the pleasures Nature loves ! 170 

While self-betray'd and wildfully undone. 
She longs to yield, no sooner woo'd than won. 
Try now the merits of this bless'd exchange, 
Of modest truth for wit's eccentrick range. 
Time was, he clos'd as he began the day 175 

With decent duty, not asham'd to pray : 

" See 2 Chron. ch. xxvi. ver. 19. 



160 

The practice was a bond upon his heart, 

A pledge he gave for a consistent part ; 

Nor could he dare presumptuously displease 

A pow'r confess'd so lately on his knees. 180 

But now farewell all legendary tales, 

The shadows fly, philosophy prevails ; 

Pray'r to the winds, and caution to the waves j 

Religion makes thee free by nature slaves ! 

Priests have invented, and the world admir'd 185 

What knavish priests promulgate as inspir'dj 

Till Reason, now no longer overaw'd. 

Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud , 

And, common sense diffusing real day. 

The meteor of the Gospel dies away 190 

Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth 

Learn from expert inquirers after truth ; 

Whose only care, might truth presume to speak. 

Is not to find what they profess to seek. 

And thus, well-tutor'd only while we share 195 

A mother's lectures and a nurse's care ; 

And taught at schools much mythologick stuff,* 

But sound religion sparingly enough ; 

Our early notices of truth, disgrac'd, 

Soon lose their credit, and are all effac'd. 200 

Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, 
Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once ; 
That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste 
For loose expense, and fashionable waste, 
Should prove your ruin and his own at last ; 205 

Train him in publick with a mob of boys, 
Childish in mischief only and in noise, 
Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten 
In infidelity and lewdness men. 

* The author bee^s leave to explain. Sensible that without 
such knowledge neither the ancient poets nor historians can 
be lasted, or indeed understood, he does not mean to censure 
the pains that are taken to instruct a school boy in thereligioa 
of the Heathen, but merely that neglect of Christism culture, 
which leaves him shamefully ignorant of his own. 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 161 

There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, 210 

That authors are most useful, pawn'd or sold ; 
That pedantry is all that schools impart. 
But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart ; 
There waiter Dick, with Bacchanalian lays, 
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise ; 215 
His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, 
And some street-pacing harlot his first love. 
Schools, unless discipline Avere doubly strong, 
Detain their adolescent charge too long ; 
The management of tyroes of eighteen 220 

Is difficult, their punishment obscene. 
The stout tall captain, whose superiour size 
The minor heroes view with envious eyes. 
Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix 
Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. 225 

His pride, that scorns t' obey or to submit, 
With them is courage ; his effront'ry; wit. 
His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, 
Robb'ry of gardens, quarrels in the streets, 229 

His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, 
Transport them, and are made their fav'rite themes. 
In little bosoms such achievements strike 
A kindred spark : they burn to do the like : 
Thus half accomplish'd ere he yet begin 
To show the peeping down upon his chin ; 235 

And, as maturity of years comes on. 
Made just th' adept that you design'd your son , 
T' ensure the perseverance of Lis course, 
And give your monstrous project all its force, 
Send him to college. If he there be tam'd, 240 

Or in one article of vice reclaim'd. 
Where no regard of ord'nances is shown 
Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. 
Some sneaking virtue lurks in him, no doubt, 
Where neither strumpets' charms nor drinking bout, 
Nor gambling practices, can find it out. 246 

Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, 
14* 



162 TIROCINIUM : OR, 

Ye nurs'ries of our boys, we owe to you : 

Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, 

For publick schools 'tis publick folly feeds. 250 

The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, 

Vv^ith packhorse constancy we keep the road, 

Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, 

True to the jingling of our leader's bells. 

To follow foolish precedents, and wink 255 

With both our eyes, is easier than to think ; 

And such an age as ours balks no expense, 

Except of caution, and of common sense ; 

Else sure notorious fact and proof so plain. 

Would tarn our steps into a wiser train. 260 

I blame not those who, with what care they can, 

O'erwatch the num'rous and unruly clanj 

Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare 

Promise a work, of which they must despair. 

Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, 265 

A ubiquarian presence and control — 

Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray "d. 

Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd ? 

Yes — ye are conscious ; and on all the shelves 

Your pupils strike upon, have struck yourselves, 270 

Or if, by nature sober, ye had then. 

Boys as ye were, the gravity of men ; 

Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd 

To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. 

But ye connive at, what ye cannot cure, 275 

And evils, not to be endur'd, endure. 

Lest pow'r exerted, but without success. 

Should make the little ye retain still less. 

Ye once v^ere justly fam'd for bringing forth 

Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth j 280 

And in the firmament of fame still shines 

A glory, bright as that of all the signs. 

Of poets rais'd by you, and statesmen, and divines. 

Peace to them all ! those brilliant times are fled, 

And no such lights are kindling in their stead. 285 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 163 

Our striplings shine indeed, b\xt with such rays, 
As set the midnight riot in a blaze ; 
And seem, if judg'd by their expressive looks, 
Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. 

Say, Muse, (for education made the song, 290 

No muse can hesitate, or linger long,) 
What causes move us, knowing as we must, 
That these vienageries all fail their trust, 
To send our sons to scout and scamper there. 
While colts and puppies cost us so much care ? 295 

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, 
We love the play-place of our early days ; 
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
The wall on v/hich we tried our graving skill, 300 
The very name we carv'd subsisting still ; 
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, 
Tho' mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd , 
The little ones, unbotton'd, glowing hot. 
Playing our games, and on the very spot ; 305 

As happy as we once, to kneel and draw 
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw ; 
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 
Or drive it devious with a dext'rous pat ; 
The pleasing spectacle at once excites 310 

Such recollection of our own delights. 
That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain 
Our innocent svv'eet simple years again. 
This fond attachment to the well-known place. 
Whence first we started into life's long race, 315 

Maintains its hold v/ith such unfailing sway, 
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 
Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future share 
Of classick food begins to be his care, 
With his own likeness plac'd on either knee, 320 

Indulges all a father's heart-felt glee ; 
And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, 
That they must soon learn liatin, and to box ; 



164 TIROCINIUM : OR, 

Then turning, he regales his list'ning wife 

With all the adventures of his early life ; 325 

His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, 

In bilking tavern bills, and spouting plays ; 

What shifts he us"d, detected in a scrape. 

How he was flogg'd or had the luck t' escape ; 

\V^hat sums he lost at play, and how he sold 330 

Watch, seals, and all — till all his pranks are told. 

Retracing thus his froUcks, ('tis a name 

That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) 

He gives the local bias all its sway ; 

Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, 335 

And destines their bright genius to be shown 

Just in the scene vdiere he display'd his own. 

The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught, 

To be as bold and forward as he ouglit ; 

The rude will scuffle through with case enough, 340 

Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. 

Ah happy designation, prudent choice, 

Th' event is sure ; expect it, and rejoice ! 

Soon see your wish fulfiU'd in either child — 

The pert made perter, and the tamo made wild. 345 

The great, indeed, by titles, riches, birth, 
Excus'd th' encumbrance of more solid worth, 
Are best dispos'd of where with most success 
They may acquire that confident address. 
Those habits of profuse and lewd expense, 350 

That scorn of all delights but those of sense. 
Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn, 
With so much reason all expect from them. 
But families of less illustrious flime. 
Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, 355 
Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small, 
Must shine by true desert, or not at all, 
What dream they of, that with so little care 
They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure there ? 
They dream of little Charles or William grac'd 360 
With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist : 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 165 

Tb.ey see th' attentive crowds his talents draw : 
They hear him speak — the oracle of law. 
The father, who designs his babe a priest, 
Dreams him episcopally such at least ; 365 

And while the playful jockey scours the room 
Briskly, astride upon the parlour broom, 
In fancy sees him more superbly ride 
In coach with purple lin'd, and mitres on its side. 
Events improbable and strange as these, 370 

Which only a parental eye foresees, 
A publick school shall brin^ to pass with ease. 
But how ! Resides such virtue in tiiut air, 
As must create an appetite for pray'r ? 
And will it breathe into him all the zeal, 375 

That candidates for such a prize should feel, 
To take the lead and be the foremost still 
In all true worth and literary skill .' 
" Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught 
The knowledge of the world, and dull of thought.'' 
Church-ladders are not always mounted best 380 

By learned clerks, and Latinists profoss'd. 
Th' exalted prize demands an upward look, 
Not to be found by poring on a book. 
Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, 385 

Is more than adequate to all I seek. 
Let erudition grace him or not grace, 
I give the bauble but the second place ; 
His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend, 
Subsist and centre in one point — a friend. 390 

A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects. 
Shall give him consequence, heal all defects. 
His intercourse with peers and sous of peers, 
There dawus the splendour of his future years : 
In that bright quarter his propitious skies 395 

Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. 
Your Lordship and Your Grace ! what school can teach 
A rhet'rick equal to those parts of speech ! 
What need of Homer's verse, or Tully's prose, 



16G TIROCINIUM : OR, 

Sweet interjections ! if he learn but those ? 400 

Let rcv'rend churls his ignorance rebuke, 

Who starv'd upon a dog's-ear'd Pentateuch, 

The parson knows enough, who knows a duke." 

Egregious purpose ! woi'thily begun 

In barb'rous prostitution of your son ; 405 

Press'd on Jus part by means that would disgrace 

A scriv'ner's clerk, or footman out of place, 

And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, 

In sacrilege, in God's own house profan'd ! 

It may succeed ; and, if his sins should call 410 

For more than common punishment, it shall j 

The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth 

Least qualified in honour, learning, worth, 

To occupy a sacred awful post. 

In which the best and worthiest tremble most. 415 

The royal letters are a thing of course, 

A king, that would, might recommend his horse ; 

And deans, no doubt, and chapters with one voice, 

As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. 

Behold your bishop ; well he plays his part, 420 

Christian in name, and infidel in heart. 

Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, 

A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. 

Dumb as a senator, and as a priest 

A piece of mere church furniture at best ; 425 

To live estrang'd from God his total scope. 

And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. 

But fair although and feasible it seem, 

Depend not much upon your golden dream : 

For Providence, that seems concern'd t' exempt 430 

Tlie hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, 

\\\ spite of all the wrigglers into place, 

Still keeps a seat or two for worth a,nd grace ; 

And therefore 'tis that though the sight be rare, 

We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. 435 

Besides, school-friendships are not always found, 

Though fair in promise, permanent and sound ; 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 167 

The most disint'rested and virtuous minds, 
In early years connected, time unbinds, 
New situations give a diffi'ent cast 440 

Of habit, inclination, temper, taste ; 
And he that seem'd our counterpart at first, 
Soon shows the strong similitude revers'd. 
Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, 
And make mistakes for manhood to reform. 445 

Boys are at best but pretty buds unblown, 
Whose scsnt and hues are rather guess'd than known ; 
Each dreams that each is just what he appears, 
But learns his errour in maturer years. 
When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd, 450 

Shows all its rents and patches to the world 
If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, 
A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 
'Twere wiser sure t' inspire a little heart 
With just abhorrence of so mean a part, 455 

Than set your son to work at a vile trade 
For wages so uivlikely to be paid. 

Our publick hives of puerile resort, 
That are of chief and most approv'd report, 
To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, 460 

Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. 
A principle, whose proud protcnsions pass 
Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass — 
That with a world, not often over nice, 
Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice ; 465 

Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, 
Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — 
Contributes most perhaps t' enhance their fame 
And emulation is its specious name. 
Boys, once on tire with that contentious zeal, 470 

Feel all the rage that female rivals feel ; 
The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes 
Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize 
The spirit of that competition burns 
With all varieties of ill by turns ; 475 



168 TJROCINIUM: OR, 

Each vainly magnifies his own success, 

Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less, 

Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, 

Deems his reward too great if he prevail, 

And labours to surpass him day and night, 480 

Less for improvement than to tickle spite. 

The spur is pow'rful. and I grant its force ; 

It pricks the genius forward in its course, 

Allows short time for play, and none for sloth j 

And, felt alike b}' each, advances both : 485 

But judge, where so much evil intervenes, 

The end, though plausible, not worth the means. 

Weigh, for a moment, classical desert 

Against a heart deprav'd and temper hurt ; 

Hurt, too, perhaps, for life ; for early wrong, 490 

Done to the nobler part, affects it long ; 

And you are stanch indeed in learning's cause, 

If you can crown a discipline, that draws 

Such mischiefs after it with much applause. 

Connexion form'd for int'rest, and endear'd 495 

By selfish views, thus censur'd and cashier'd : 
And emulation, as engend'ring hate, 
Doom'd to a no less ignominious fato : 
The props of such proud seminaries fall, 
The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. 500 

Great schools rejected then, as those that swell 
Beyond a size that can be manag'd well, 
Shall royal institutions miss the bays, 
And small academies win all the praise ? 
Force not my drift beyound its just intent, 505 

I praise a school as Pope a government ; 
So take my judgment in his language dress'd, 
" Whate'er is best administer'd is best." 
Few boys are born with talents that excel. 
But all are capable of living well ; 510 

Then ask not, Whether limited or large ? 
But, Watch they strictly, or neglect their charge ? 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 169 

If anxious only, that tlieir boys may learn, 

While morals languish, a despis"d concern, 

The great and small deserve one common blame, 515 

Diff'rent in size, but in elfect the same. 

Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, 

Though motives of mere lucre sway the most ; 

Therefore in towns and cities they abound, 

For there tlie game they seek is easiest found ; 520 

Though there, in spite of all that care can do, 

Traps to catch youth are more abundant too. 

If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain, 

Keen in pursuit, and vig'rous to retain. 

Your son come forth a prodigy of skill ; 525 

As, wheresoever tauglit, so form'd he will ; 

The pedagogue, with self-complacent air. 

Claims more than half the praise as his due share. 

But if, with all his genius, he betray, 

Not more intelligent than loose and gay, 530 

Such vicious habits as disgrace his name. 

Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame ; 

Though want of due restraint alone have bred 

The symptoms, that you see with so much dread : 

Unenvied there, he may sustain alone 535 

The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. 

O 'tis a sight to bo with joy perus'd. 
By all whom sentiment has not abus tl , 
New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace 
Of those who never feel in the right place ; 540 

A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, 
Though Vestris on one leg still shine belcv ; 
A father blest with an ingenuous son, 
Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one ; 
How ! — turn again to tales long since forgot, 545 

^sop, and Phaedrus, and the rest ? — Why not .' 
He will not blush, that has a father's heart. 
To take in childish plays a childish part ; 
But bends his sturdy back to any toy 
That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy ; 550 

Vol. II. 15 



170 TIROCINIUM: OR, 

Then why resign into a stranger's hand 

A task as much within your own command, 

That God and Nature, and your int'rest too 

Seem with one voice to delegate to you ? 

Why hire a lodging in a house unknown 555 

For one, whose tend'rest thoughts all hover round 

your own r 
This second weaning, needless as it is, 
How does it lac'rate both your heart and his I 
Th' indented stick, that loses day by day 
Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, 560 

Bears witness, long ere his dismission come, 
With what intense desire he wants his home. 
But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof 
Bid fair enough to answer in the proof. 
Harmless, and safe, and nat'ral, as they are 565 

A disappointment waits him even there ; 
Arriv'd, he feels an unexpected change. 
He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange ; 
No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease. 
His fav'rite stand between his father's knees, 570 

But seeks the corner of some distant seat. 
And eyes the door, and watches a retreat ; 
And, least familiar where he should be most, 
Feels all his happiest privileges lost. 
Alas, poor boy ! — the natural effect 675 

Of love by absence chill'd into respect. 
Say, what accomplishments, at school acquir'dy 
Brings he to sweeten fruits so undesir'd ? 
Thou well deserv'st an alienated son. 
Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge — none ; 58C 
None that, in thy domestick snug recess, 
He had not made his own with more address. 
Though some, perhaps, tlmt shock thy feeling mind, 
And better never learn'd, or left behind. 
Add, too, that, thus estrang'd, thou canst obtain 585 
By no kind arts his confidence again ; 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 171 

That here begins with most that long complaint 
Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint ; 
Which, oft neglected in life's waning years 
A parent pours into regardless ears. 690 

Like caterpillars dangling under trees 
By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, 
Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace 
The boughs in which are bred th' unseemly race ; 
While ev'ry worm industriously weaves 595 

And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves ; 
So num'rous are the follies that annoy 
The mind and heart of ev'ry sprightly boy ; 
Imaginations noxious and perverse, 
Which admonition can alone disperse, 600 

Th' encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand, 
Patient, affectionate, of high command, 
To check the procreation of a breed 
Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 
'Tis not enough, that Greek or Roman page, 605 

At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage ; 
E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend 
To warn, and teach him safely to unbend 
O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, 
Watch his emotions, and control their tide ; 610 

And levying thus, and with an easy sway, 
A tax of profit from his very play, 
T' impress a value not to be eras'd. 
On moments squander'd else, and running all to waste 
And seems it nothing in a father's eye, 615 

That unimprov'd those many moments fly 
And is he well content his son should find 
No nourishment to feed his growing mind, 
But conjugated verbs, and nouns declin'd ? 
For such is all the mental food purvey'd C20 

By publick hacknies in the schooling trade ; 
Who feed a pupil's intellect with store 
Of syntax, truly, but with little more ; 



in TIROCINIUM: OR, 

Dismiss their cares, when they dismiss their flock, 

Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. 625 

Perhaps a father, bless'd with any brains, 

Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains, 

T' improve this diet, at no great expense. 

With sav'ry truth and wholesome common sense : 

To lead his son, for prospects of delight, 630 

To some not steep, though philosophick height, 

Thence to exhihit to his wondering eyes 

Yon circling v/orlds, their distance and their size, 

The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, 

And the harmonious order of them all ; 635 

To show him in an insect or a flow'r 

Such microscopick proof of skill and powT, 

As, hid from ages past, God now displays, 

To combat atheists with in modern days ; 

To spread the earth before him, and commend^ 640 

With designation of the fingers' end, 

Its various parts to his attentive note, 

Thus bringing home to him the most remote ; 

To teach his heart to glow with gen'rous flame. 

Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; 645 

And, more than all, with commendation due, 

To set some living worthy in his view, 

Whose fair example may at once inspire 

A wish to copy what he must admire. 

Such knowledge gain'd betimes, and which appears 

Though solid, not too weighty for his years, 651 

Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport, 

When health demands it, of athletick sort, 

Would make him — what some lovely boys have been, 

And more than one, perhaps, that I have seen — 655 

An evidence and reprehension both 

Of the mere scliool-boy's lean and tardy growth. 

Art thou a man professionally tied, 
With all thy faculties elsewhere applied, 
Too busy to intend a meaner care, 660 

Than how t' enrich thyself, and next thine heir ; 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 173 

Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art ) 
But poor in knowledge, having none t' impart' 
Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad ; 
His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad ; 665 

Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then 
Heard to articulate like other men ; 
No jester, and yet lively in discourse, 
His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force 
And his address, if not quite French in ease, 670 

Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please , 
Low in the world because he scorns its arts ; 
A man of letters, manners, morals, parts ; 
Unpatronis'd, and therefore little known ; 
Wise for himself and his few friends alone — 675 

Li him thy well-appointed proxy see, 
Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee ; 
Prepar'd by taste, by learning, and true worth, 
To form thy son, to strike his genius forth ; 
Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove 680 

The force of discipline when back'd by love ; 
To double all thy pleasure in thy child, 
His mind inform'd, his morals undefil'd. 
Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show 
No spots contracted among grooms below, 6S5 

Nor taint his speech with meannesses design'd 
By footman Tom for witty and refin'd. 
There, in his commerce with the liv'ried herd, 
Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd ; 
For since, (so fashion dictates,) all who claim 090 

A higher than a mere plebeian fame. 
Find it expedient, come what mischief may, 
To entertain a thief or two in pay, 
(And they that can afford th' expense of more, 
Some half a dozen, and some half a score,) 695 

Great cause occurs, to save him from a band 
So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand ; 
A point secur"d, if once he be supply'd 
With some such Mentor always at his side. 
15* 



J 74 TIROCINIUM: OR, 

Are such men rare ? perhaps they would abound, 700 

Were occupation easier to be found, 

Were education, else so sure to fail, 

Conducted on a manageable scale, 

And schools, that have outliy'd all just esteem, 

Exchang"d for the secure domestick scheme. — 705 

But, having found hiin, be thou duke or earl. 

Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, 

And, as thou wouldst th' advancement of thine heir 

In all good faculties beneath his care, 

Respect, as is but rational and just, 710 

A man deem'd worthy of so dear a trust, 

Despis'd by thee, what more can he expect 

From youthful folly than the same neglect ? 

A flat and fatal negative obtains, 

That instant, upon all his future pains ; 715 

His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend. 

And all th' instructions of thy son's best friend 

Are a stream chok'd, or trickling to no end. 

Doom him not then to solitary meals ; 

But recollect that he has sense, and feels ;. 720 

And that, possessor of a soul refin'd. 

An upright heart and cultivated mind. 

His post not mean, his talents not unknown, 

He deems it hard to vegetate alone. 

And, if admitted at thy board he sit, 725 

Account him no just mark for idle wit ; 

Offend not him, whom modesty restrains 

From repartee, with jokes that he disdains •, 

Much less transfix his feelings with an oath ; 

Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth. 730 

And, trust me, his utility may reach 

To more than he is hir'd or bound to teach ; 

Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone, 

Through rev'rence of the censor of thy son. 

But, if thy table be indeed unclean, 735 

Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene. 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 175 

And thou a wretch, whom, foll'wing her own plan 

The world accounts an honourable man, 

Because forsooth thy courage has been tried 

And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side ; 740 

Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove 

Tliat any thing but vice could win thy love ; — 

Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, 

Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life ; 

Who, just when industr}^ begins to snore, 745 

P'lies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded door j 

And thrice in every winter throngs thine own 

With half the chariots and sedans in town. 

Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst , 

Not very sober though, nor very chaste ; 750 

Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank 

If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank, 

And thou at best, and in thy sob'rest mood, 

A trifier, vain and empty of all good ; 

Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none, 755 

Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. 

Sav'd from his home, where every day brings forth 

Some mischief fatal to his future worth, 

Find him a better in a distant spot. 

Within some pious pastor's humble cot, 760 

Where vile example, (yours I chiefly mean. 

The most seducing, and the oft'nest seen,) 

May never more be stamp'd upon his breast, 

Nor yet perhaps incurably impress'd. 

Where early rest makes early rising sure, 765 

Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure 

Prevented much by diet neat o^nd plain ; 

Or, if it enter, soon starv'd out again : 

Where all th' attention of liis faithful host. 

Discreetly limited to two at most, 770 

May raise such fruits as shall reward his care. 

And not at last evaporate in air ; 

"Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind 

Serene, and to his duties much inclin'd. 



176 TIROCINIUM . OR, 

Not occupied m day-dreams, as at home, 775 

Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, 

His virtuous toil may terminate at last 

In settled habit and decided taste. — 

But whom do I advise ? the fashion led, 

Th' incorrigibly wrong, the deaf, the dead, 780 

Whom care and cool deliberation suit 

Not better much than spectacles a brute ; 

Who, if their sons some slight tuition share, 

Deem it of no great moment wliose, or where; 

Too proud t' adopt the thoughts of one unlvnown 7S5 

And much too gay t' have any of their own. 

But courage, man ! methought the muse replied 

Mankind are various, and the world is wide : 

The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind, 

And form'd of God without a parent's mind, 790 

Commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust. 

Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust ; 

And, while on publick nurs'ries they rely. 

Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, 

Irrational in what they thus prefer 795 

No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. 

But all are not alike Thy warning voice 

May here and there prevent erroneous choice ; 

And some perhaps, who, busy as they are. 

Yet make their progeny their dearest care, 800 

(Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills may 

reach 
Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,) 
Will need no stress of argument t' enforce 
Th' expedience of a less advent'rous course ; 
The rest will slight thy counsel or condemn ; 805 

But they have human feelings — turn to ihem. 
To you then, tenants of life's middle state. 
Securely plac'd between the small and great, 
Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains 
Two thirds of all the virtue that remains, 810 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 177 

Who, wise yourselves, desire your son should learn 
Your wisdom and your ways — to you 1 turn. 
Look round you on a world perversely blind : 
See what contempt is fall'n on human kind ; 
See wealth abusd, and dignities misplac'd, 815 

Great titles, offices, and trusts disgrac'd, 
Long lines of ancestry, renown d of old, 
Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold ; 
See Bedlam's closeted and hand-caff 'd charge 
Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large ; 820 

See great commanders making war a trade , 
Great lawyers lawyers without study made : 
Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ 
Is odious, and their wages all their joy ; 
Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves 825 
With gospel lore, turn infidels themselves ; 
See womanhood despis'd, and manhood sham'd 
With infamy too nauseous to be nam'd ; 
Fops at all corners, lady-like in mien, 
Civeted fellows, smelt ere they are seen, 830 

Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue 
On fire wnth curses, and with nonsense hung, 
Now flush'd with drunk'nness, now with whoredom 

pale, 
Their breath a sample of lost night's regale ; 
See volunteers in all the vilest arts 835 

Man well endov/'d, of honourable parts, 
Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools, 
All these, and more like these, were bred at schools, 
And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, 
That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still J 840 
Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark 
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark : 
As here and there a twinkling star descried, 
Serves but to show how black is all beside. 
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone 845 

Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own, 



178 TIROCINIUM: OR, 

And stroke his polisli'd cheek of purest red, 

And lay thme hand upon his flaxen head, 

And say. My boy, th' unwelcome hour is come, 

When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, 850 

Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, 

And trust for safety to a stranger's care j 

What character, what turn thou wilt assume 

From constant converse with I know not whom j 

Who there will court thy friendship, with what views, 

And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; 856 

Though much depends on what thy choice shall be, 

Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me. 

Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids, 

And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids ; 860 , 

Free too, and under no constraining force, j| 

Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; 

Lay such a stake upon the losing side 

Merely to gratify so blind a guide ? 

Thou canst not ! Nature, pulling at thine heart, 865 

Condemns th' unfatherly, th' imprudent part. 

Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tend'rest plea, 

Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea. 

Nor say. Go thither, conscious that there lay 

A brood of asps or quicksands in his way ; 870 

Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule 

Of nat'ral pity, send him not to school. 

No — guard him better. Is he not thine own, 

Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone ? 

And hop'st thou not, ('tis ev'ry father's hope,) 875 

That since thy strength must with thy years elope, 

And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage 

Health's last farev*'ell, a staff in thine old age. 

That then, in recompense of all thy cares. 

Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs, 880 

Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft, 

And give thy life its only cordial left I 

Av;are then how much danger intervenes, 

To compass that good end forecast the means, 



A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 179 

His heart, now passive, yields to thy command; 885 

Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand. 

If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, 

Nor heed what guest there enter and abide, 

Complain not if attachments lewd and base 

Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place 890 

But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure 

From vicious inmates and delights impure, 

Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, 

And keep him warm and filial to the last ; 

Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say 895 

But, being man, and therefore frail, he may .'') 

One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, 

Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. 

O barb'rous ! wouldst thou with a Gothick hand 
Pull down the schools — what ! — all th' schools i' th' 
land ; 900 

Or throw them up to liv'ry nags and grooms, 
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms ? 
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) 
Deserves an answer similar or none. 
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ, 905 

(Appris'd that he is such,) a careless boy, 
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, 
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ? 
Survey our schools and colleges, and see 
A sight not much unlike my simile. 910 

From education, as the leading cause, 
The publick character its colour draws ; 
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast, 
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. 
And, though I would not advertise them yet, 915 

Nor write on each — This hu'dding to be let, 
Unless the world were all prepar'd t' embrace 
A plan well worthy to supply their place ; 
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been, 
To cultivate and keep the morals clean, 920 

(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, 
Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less. 



(180) 
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON. 

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY. 



THE swallows in their torpid state 

Compose their useless wing, 
And bees in hives as idly wait 

The call of early Spring. 
II. 
The keenest frost that binds the stream, 

The wildest wind that blows, 
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, 

Secure of their repose. 
III. 
But man, all feeling and awake, 

The gloomy scene surveys ! 
With present ills his heart must ache, 

And pant for brighter days. 
IV. 
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead, 

Bids me and Mary mourn ; 
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, 

And whispers your return. 
V. 
Then April with her sister May, 

Shall chase him from the bow'rs, 
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day 

To crown the smiling hours. 
VI. 
And if a tear, that speaks regret, 

Of happier times, appear, 
A glimpse of joy, that we have met. 

Shall shine and dry the tear. 



(181) 



On the receipt of my Motner's Picture out of Jfor- 
folky the gift of my cousin Ann Bodham. 



O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me } 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
*' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !** 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, 
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize. 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannick claim 
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed .-* 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun .-' 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss, 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 

Vol. II. 16 



182 ON THE RECEIPT OF 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 

And turning from my nurs'ry window, drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 

But was it such ? — It v/as — where thou art gou© 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 

Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 

What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, 

And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. 

By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd. 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 

But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod mv nurs'ry floor } 
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the publick way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In ccarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
Tis now become a hist'ry little known, 
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair. 
That mem'ry keeps of all the kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
Thy nightly visit§ to my chamber made, | 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; | 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, j 

The biscuit, or confectionary plum, i 

The fragrant waters on ray cheeks bestow'd \ 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ' ' 

All this, and more endearing still than all, | 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 



MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 183 

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breads 
That humour interpos'd too often makes ; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And Ktill to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes mo glad to pay 
Such honours to thee as m}' numbers may : 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
]Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notie'd here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pni, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desir'd, jftrhaps I might — 
But no — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, 
(The storms all v/eather"d and the ocean cross'd,) 
Shoots into port at some v/ell-haven'd isle. 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smilO) 
There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"* 
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide 
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
* Garth. 



184 ON THE RECEIPT OF, &c. 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. 
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now farewell — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done, 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimick shov/ of thee, 
Time has but half succeededrn his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to sooth me left. 



FRIENDSHIP. 



WHAT virtue, or what mental grace^ 
But men unqualified and base 

Will boast it their possession ? 
Profusion apes the nobler part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dulness of discretion. 
If ev'iy polish"d gem we find 
Illuminating heart or mind. 

Provoke to imitation ; 
No wonder friendship does the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame, 

Or rather constellation 

No knave but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that form a friend, 

A real and a sound one ,; 
Nor any fool, he would deceive, 
But proves as ready to believe. 

And dream that he had found one. 

Candid, and generous, and just, 
Boys care but little whom they trust, 

An errour soon corrected — 
For who but learns in riper years, 
That man, when smoothest he appears 

Is most to be suspected ? 

But here again a danger lies, 
Lest, having misapplied our eyes, 

And taken trash for treasure, 
We should unwarily conclude 
Friendship a false ideal good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 
16* 



186 FRIENDSHIP. 

An acquisition rather rare 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor is it wise complaining, 
If either on forbiddden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found, 

We sought without attaining. 

No friendship will abide the test, 
That stands on sordid interest, 

Or mean self-love erected : 
Nor such as may awhile subsist, 
Between the sot and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 

Who seeks a friend should come dispos'd 
T' exhibit in full bloom disclos'd 

The graces and the beauties, 
That form the character he seeks, 
For 'tis a union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 

Mutual attention is implied. 
And equal truth on either side. 

And constantly supported ; 
'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse 
Another of sinister views, 

Our own as much distorted. 

But will sincerity suffice ? 
It is indeed above all price. 

And must be made the basis ; 
But ev'ry virtue of the soul 
Must constitute the charming whole, 

All shining in their places. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sha^rp corrosion ; 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 



FRIENDSHIP. 187 

In vain the talkative unite 
In hopes of permanent delight — 

The secret just committed, 
Forgetting its important weight, 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 

And by themselves outwitted. 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams 

If en\y chance to creep in ; 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
Ma}'- prove a dang'rous foe indeed. 

But not a friend worth keeping. 

As envy pines at good possess'd. 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd 

On good, that seems approaching ; 
And if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a friend, 

And hates him for encroaching. 

Hence authors of illustrious name 
Unless belied by common fame. 

Are sadly prone to quarrel. 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
A tax upon their own just praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 

A man renown'd for repartee, 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling ; 
Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
And say he wounded you in jest, 

By way of balm for healing. 

Whoever keeps an open ear 
For tattlers, will be sure to hear 

The trumpet of contention ; 
Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 
To listen is to lend him aid, 

And rush into dissension. 



188 FRIENDSHIP. 

A friendship, tliat in frequent fits 
Of controversial rage emits 

The sparks of disputation, 
Like hand in liand insurance plates, 
Most unavoidably creates 

The thought of conflagration. 

Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as a needle to the pole, 

Their humour yet so various, 
They manifest their whole life through 
The needle's deviations too, 

Their love is so precarious. 

The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete, 

Plebeians must surrender 
And yield so much to noble folk, 
It is combining fire with smoke. 

Obscurity with splendour. 

Some are so placid and serene 
(As Irish bogs are always green,) 

They sleep secure from waking : 
And are indeed a bog that bears 
Your unparticipated cares 

Unmov'd and without quaking. 

Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politicks, 

Without an effervescence, 
Like that of salts with lemon juice, 
Which does not, yet like that produce 

A friendly coalescence. 

Religion should extinguish strife. 
And make a calm of human life ; 

But friends that chance to differ 
On points which God has left at large, 
How freely will they meet and charge 

No combatants are stifFer. 



FRIENDSHIP. 189 

To prove at last my main intent 
Needs no expense of argument, 

No cutting and contriving — 
Seeking a real friend we seem 
T' adopt the chemist's golden dream, 

With still less hope of thriving. 

Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
Some blemish in due time made known 

By trespass or omission ; 
Sometimes occasion brings to light 
Our friend's defect long hid from sight, 

And even from suspicion. 

Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
As circumspectly as you can, 

And, having made election, 
Beware no negligence of yours, 
Such as a friend but ill endures, 

Enfeeble his affection. 

That secrets are a sacred trust. 

That friends should be sincere and just, 

That constancy bejSts them, 
Are observations on the case, 
That savour much of common-place, 

And all the world admits them. 

But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, 
An architect requires alone, 

To finish a fine building — 
The palace were but half complete. 
If he could possibly forget 

The carving and the gilding. 
The man that hails you Tom or Jack 
And proves by thumps upon your back 

How he esteems your merit, 
Is such a friend, that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed. 

To pardon or to bear it. 



190 FRIENDSHIP 

As similarity of mind, 
Or something not to be defin'd. 

First fixes our attention : 
So manners decent and polite, 
The same we practis'd at first sight. 

Must save it from declension. 

Some act upon this prudent plan, 
" Say little, and hear all you can." 

Safe policy, but hateful — 
So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
But render neither fruit nor flow'r 

Unpleasant and ungrateful. 
The man I trust, if shy to me, 
Shall find me as reserv'd as he, 

No subterfuge or pleading 
Shall win my confidence again — 
I will by no means entertain 

A spy on my proceeding. 

These samples — for alas ! at last 
These are but samples, and a taste 

Of evils yet unmention'd — 
May prove the task a task indeed. 
In which 'tis much if we succeed, 

However well intention'd. 

Pursue the search, and you will find 
Good sense and knowledge of mankind 

To be at least expedient, 
And, after summing all the rest. 
Religion ruling in the breast 

A principal ingredient. 

The noblest Friendship ever shown 
The Saviour's history makes known, 

Though some have turn'd and tum'd it J 
And whether being craz'd or blind, 
Or seeing with a biass'd mind, 

Have not, it seems, discern'd it 



THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. 191 

O Friendship ! if my soul forego 
Thy dear dehghts while here below 

To mortify and grieve mc, 
May I myself at last appear 
Unworthy, base, and insincere. 

Or may my friend deceive me t 



THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. 



A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold 
That title now too trite and old,) 
A man, once young, who liv'd retir'd 
As hermit could have well dcsir'd, 
His hours of study clos'd at last, 
And finsh'd bis concise repast, 
Stoppled his cruise, replac'd his book 
Within his customary nook. 
And, staff in hand, set forth to share 
The sober cordial of sweet air, 
Like Isaac, with a mind applied 
To serious thought at ev'ning tide. 
Autumnal rains had made it chill. 
And from the trees that fring'd liis hill, 
Shades slanting at the close of day 
Chiird more his else delightful way , 
Distant a httle mile he spied 
A western bank's still sunny side. 
And riglit toward the favour'd place 
Proceeding with his nimblest pace, 
In hope to bask a little yet, 
Just reach'd it when the sun was set 



192 THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. 

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! 
Learns something from whate'er occurs— 
And hence, he said, my mind computes 
The real worth of man's pursuits 
His object chosen, wealth, or fame, 
Or other sublunary game, 
Imagination to his view 
Presents it deck'd with ev'ry hue 
That can seduce him not to spare 
His pow'rs of best exertion there, 
But youth, health, vigour, to expend 
On so desirable an end. 
Ere long approach life's ev'ning shades, 
The glow that fancy gave it fades ; 
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace 
That first engag'd him in the chase. 

True, answer'd an angelick guide, 
Attendant at the senior's side — 
But whether all the time it cost, 
To urge the fruitless chase be lost, 
Must be decided by the worth 
Of that which call'd his ardour forth. 
Trifles pursu'd, whate'er th' event, 
Must cause him shame or discontent : 
A vicious object still is worse, 
Successful there he wins a curse. 
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage 
Endeavours laudable engage, 
Is paid, at least in peace of mind, 
And sense of having well design'd ; 
And if, ere he attain his end, 
His sun precipitate descend, 
A brighter prize than that he meant 
Shall recompense his mere intent. 
No virtuous wish can bear a date 
Either too early or too late 



CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, 
(now MRS. COURTNEY.) 



SHE came— she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain 
Catharma has fled like a dream — 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
But has left a regret and esteem, 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last ev'ning ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
We paus'd under many a tree. 

And much she was charm'd with a tone 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My numbers that day she had sung, 

And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 
Vol. II. 17 



194 CATHARINA 

Though the pleasures of London e^fceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here ; 
For the close-woven arches of limes 

On the banlcs of our river, I know. 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught, that the city can show. 

So it is, when the mind is endu'd 

With a well-judging taste from above, 
Then whother embellisli'd or rude 

'Tis nature alone that v/e love ; 
The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our Vvronder excite. 
But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since, then, in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre 

To wing all her moments at home ; 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear, 
And ours would be pleasant as hers, 

Might we view her enjoying it hero. 



THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 



THE green house is my summer seat ; 
My shrubs displac'd from that retreat 

Enjoy'd the open air ; 
Two Goldfinches, whose sprightly song, 
Had been their mutual solace long, 

Liv'd happy pris'ners there. 

They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
That flutter loose on golden wing, 

And frolick where they list ; 
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
But that delight they never knew 

And therefore never miss'd. 

But nature works in every breast, 
With force not easily suppress'd ; 

And Dick felt some desires, 
That after many an effort vain, 
Instructed him at length to gain 

A pass between his wires. 

The open windows seem'd t' invite 
The freeman to a farewell flight : 

But Tom was still confin'd : 
And Dick, although his way was clear 
Was much too gen'rous and sincere, 

To leave his friend behind. 

So settling on his cage, by play, 
And chirp, and kiss he seem'd to say, 

You must not live alone — 
Nor would he quit that chosen stand, 
Till I, with slow and cautious hand, 

Return'd him to his 'own. 



196 THE NEEDLESS ALARM 

O ye who never taste the joys 

Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 

Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
A prison with a friend preferr'd 

To liberty without. 



THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 



THERE is a field, through which I often pass 
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, 
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, 
Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, 
Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring squire, 
That he may follow them through brake and bner, 
Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine, 
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. 
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd 
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field ; 
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
But now wear crests of oven- wood instead j 
And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn, 
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ; 
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, 
And horrid brambles intertwine below j 
A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time. 
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red. 
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ; 
Nor autumn yet had brush'd from ev'ry spray. 
With her chill hand the mellow leaves away j 



THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 197 

liut corn was hous'd, and beans were in the stack ] 
Now therefore issu'd forth the spotted pack, 
With tails high Kiounted, ears hung low, and throats, 
With a whole gamut fill'd of heav'nly notes, 
For which, alas ! my destiny severe, 
Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 

The sun, accomplishing his early march, 
His lamp now planted on Heav'n's topmost arch, 
When, exercise and air my only aim. 
And heedless whither, to that field I came, 
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound 
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, 
Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang 
All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang. 

Sheep graz'd the field ; some with soft bosom press'd 
Tiie herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest ', 
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, 
Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. 
All seern'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'd, 
To me their peace by kind contagion spread. 

But when the huntsman with distended cheek, 
'Gan make his instrument of musick speak, 
And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd. 
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz'd, 
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz'd. 
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain. 
Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it round 

agam ; 
But, recollecting with a sudden thought. 
That flight in circles urg'd advanc'd them nought, 
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink. 
And thought agam — but knew not what to think. 

* Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq. 



198 THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 

The man to solitude accustom'd long 
Perceivns in every thing that lives a tongue , 
Not animals alone, but slirubs and trees, 
Have speech for him, and understood with ease j 
After long drought when rains abundant fall, 
He hears the herbs and flow'rs rejoicing all ; 
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, 
How glad they catch the largess of the skies ; 
But, with precision nicci still, the mind 
He scans of ev'ry locomotive kind ; 
Birds of all feather, beasts of ev"ry name, 
That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame j 
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears 
Have all articulation in his ears ; 
He spells them true by intuition's light, 
And needs no glossary to set him right. 

This truth premis'd was needful as a text, 
To win due credence to what follows next. 

Awhile they mus'd ; surveying ev'ry face, 
Thou hadst suppos'd them of superiour race ; 
Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin'd 
Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind, 
That sage they seem'd as lawyers o'er a doubt, 
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out ; 
Or acadcmick tutors, teaching youths, 
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematick truths ; 
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, 
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad, address'd. 

Friends ! we have liv'd too long. I never heard 
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 
Could 1 believe, that winds for ages pent 
In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent. 
And from their prison-house below arise, 
With all these hideous bowlings to the skies, 
I could be much compos'd, nor should appear, 
For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. 



THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 199 

yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roJl'd 
All night, ine resting quiet in the fold. 
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, 
I could expound the melancholy tone : 
Should deem it by our old companion made, 
The ass ; for he, we know, has lately stray'd, 
And being lost, perhaps, and wand'ring wide, 
Might be suppos'd to clamour for a guide. 
But ah ! those dreadful yells what soul can hear 
That owns a carcass and not quake for fear ? 
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd, 
And fang'd with brass, the du.mons axe abroad ; 
1 hold it therefore wisest and most fit, 
That, life to save, we leap into the pit. 

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, 
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. 

How ! leap into the pit our life to save ? 
To save our life leap all into the grave ? 
For can we find it less ? Contemplate first 
The depth how awful ! falling there we burst ; 
Or should the brambles, interpos"d, our fall 
In part abate, that happiness were small : 
For with a race like theirs no chance I see 
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, 
Or be it not, or be it whose it may. 
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues 
Of demons utter'd from whatever lungs. 
Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear. 
We have at least commodious standing here. 
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast 
From Earth or Hell, wc can but plunge at last. 

While chus she spake, I fainter heard the peals. 
For Reynard, close attended at his heels 
By panting dog, tir'd man, and spatter'd horse, 
Through mere good fortune, took a difF'rent course 



•200 BOADICEA. 

The flock grew calm again, and I tne road 

Foil 'wing, that led me to my own abode. 
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found 
Such cause of terrour in an empty sound, 
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 

MORAL. 
Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, 
Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away. 



BOADICEA 



L 

WHEN the British warriour queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods. 

a. 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Ev'ry burning word he spoke 
Full of rage,, and full of grief 

in. 

Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy niatchless wrongs 
*Tis because resentment ties 

All the terrours of our tongues. 



BOADICEA. 201 

Rome shall perish — write that word 

In the blood that she hast spill'd ; 
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

V. 
Rome, for empire far renown'd. 

Tramples on a thousand states ; 
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 

Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

VI. 
Other Romans shall eirise. 

Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize 

Harmony the path to fame. 

VII. 
Then the progeny that springs 

From the forests of G\ir land, 
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings 

Shall a wider world command. 

VIII. 

Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

IX. 
Such the bard's prophetick words, 

Pregnant with celestial fire. 
Bending as he swept the chords 

Of his sweet but awful lyro. 

X. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 

Felt them in her bosom glow ; 
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died j 

Dying hurl'd them at the foe. 



202 HEROISM 

XL 
Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 

Heav'n awards the vengeance due ■ 
Empire is on us bestov/'d, 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 



HEROISM. 



THERE was a time when ^Etna's silent fire 
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; 
\yhen, conscious of no danger from below, 
She tower'd a cloudcapt pyramid of snow. 
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound 
The blooming groves that girdled her around. 
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, 
(Unfclt the fury of those bursting mines,) 
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assur'd, 
In peace upon her sloping sides matur'd. 
When on a day, like that of the last doom, 
A conflagration lab'ring in her vv'^omb, 
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth, 
That shook the circling seas and solid earth. 
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise, 
And hang their horrours in the neighb'ring skies, 
While through the stygian veil that blots the day, 
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. 
But O ! what muse, and in what pow'rs of song, 
Can trace the torrent as it burns along .'* 
Havock and devastation in the van, 
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man, 
Vines, olives, herbage, forests, disappear, 
And all the cUarms of a Sicilian vear. 



HEROISM. 203 

Revolving seasons fruitless as they pass, 
See it an uninform'd and idle mass ; 
Without a soil t' invite the tiller's care, 
Or blade that might redeem it from despair. 
Yet time, at length, (what will not time achieve ?) 
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. 
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, 
And ruminating tiooks enjoy the shade. 
O bliss precarious and unsafe retreats, 
O charming Paradise of short-liv'd sweets ! 
The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round, 
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : 
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe. 
Again pours ruin on the vale below. 
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, 
That only future ages can restore. 

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws. 
Who write in blood the merits of your cause, 
Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, 
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence ; 
Behold in iEtna's emblematick fires 
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires. 

Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain. 
And tells you where ye have a right to reign, 
A nation dwells, not envious of j'our throne, 
Studious of peace, their neighbours' and their own, 
Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue 
Their only crime, vicinity to you ! 
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad. 
Throiigh the ripe harvest lies their destin'd road . 
Al ev'ry step ben«/ath their feet they tread 
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! 
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress 
Before them, and behind a wilderness. 
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, 
Attend to finish wliat the sword begun • 



204 HEROISM. 

And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, 
And Folly pays, resound at your return. 
A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train 
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again, 
And years of pining indigence must show 
What scourges are the gods that rule below. 
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, 
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) 
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, 
Gleans up the refuse of tlie gcn'ral spoil, 
Rebuilds the tow'rs, that smok"d upon the plain, 
And the sun gilds the shining spires again. 

Increasing commerce and reviving art 
Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part ; 
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once raoro^ 
That wealth v.'ithin is ruin at the door. 
What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, 
But iEtnas of the suff'ring world ye sway ? 
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 
.Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; 
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar. 
To prove you there destroyers as ye are. 

O place me in some Heav'n-protccted isle, 
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile • 
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood. 
No crested warriour dips his plume in blood ; 
Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won ; 
Where to succeed is not to be undone ; 
A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain, 
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.' 



(205) 



On a MisomETons bull, which the owner of him 

SOLD AT THE AUTUOR's INSTANCE. 



GO — thou art all unfit to share 

The pleasures of this place 
With such as its old tenants are, 

Creatures of gentler race. 

The squirrel here his hoard provides 

Aware of wintry storms, 
And wood-peckers explore the sides 

Of rugged oaks for worms. 

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn 

With frictions of her fleece ; 
And here I wander eve and morn, 

Like her, a friend to peace. 

Ah ! — I could pity thee exil'd 

From this secure retreat — 
1 would not lose it to be styl'd 

The happiest of the great. 

But thou canst taste no calm delight ; 

Thy pleasure is to show 
Thy magnanimity in fight, 

Thy prowess — therefore go- 

I care not whether east or north, 

So I no more may find thee ; 
The angry muse thus sings thee forth, 

And claps the gate behind thee. 
Vol. IL 18 



(206) 



ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. 

Written in commemoration of his majesty*! 
happv recotery. 



I RANSACK'D for a theme of song, 
Much ancient chronicle, and long ; 
I read of bright embattled fields, 
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields, 
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast 
Prowess to dissipate a host ; 
Through tomes of fable and of dream 
I sought an eligible theme. 
But none I found, or found them shar'd 
Already by some liappier bard. 

To modern times, with Truth to guide 
My busy search, I next applied ; 
Here cities won, and fleets dispers'd, 
Urg'd loud a claim to be rehears'd, 
Deeds of unperishing renown, 
Our fathers' triumphs and our own. 

Thus, as the bee, from bank to bow'r, 
Assiduous sips at ev'ry flow'r, 
But rests on none, till that be found, 
Where most nectareous sweets abound-— 
So I, from theme to theme display'd 
In many a page historick stray'd, 
Siege after siege, fight after fight 
Contemplating with small delight, 
(For feats of sanguinary hue 
Not always glitter in my view,) 



--J 



ANNUS MEMORABILIS. 207 

Till, settling on the current year, 
I found the far-sought treasure near ; 
A theme for poetry divine, 
A theme t' ennoble even mine, 
In memorable eighty -nine. 

The spring of eighty-nine shall be 
An era cherish'd long by me, 
Which joyful I will oft record, 
And thankful at my frugal board ; 
For then the clouds of eighty-eight 
That threaten'd England's trembling state 
With loss of what she least could spare, 
Her sovereign's tutelary care, 
One breath of Heaven, that cried — Restore \ 
Chas'd, never to assemble more ; 
And far the richest crown on earth, 
If valued by its wearer's worth, 
The symbol of a righteous reign 
Sat fast on George's brows again. 

Then peace and joy again possess'd 
Our Queen's long agitated breast j 
Such joy and peace as can be known 
By sufF'rers like herself alone, 
Who, losing, or supposing lost. 
The good on earth they valu'd most, 
For that dear sorrows' sake forego 
All hope of happiness below, 
Then suddenly regain the prize. 
And flash thanksgivings to the skies ! 

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles ' 
Since all thy tears were chang'd to smiles, 
The eyes that never saw thee shine 
With joy not unallied to thine. 
Transports not chargeable with art 
Illume the land's remotest part, 



208 HYMN. 

And strangers to the air of courts, 
Both in tlieir toils and at their sports. 
The happmess of answer'd pray'rs, 
That gilds thy features, show in theirs. 

If they who on thy state attend, 
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 
'Tis but the natural effect 
Of grandeur that ensures respect ; 
But she is something more than queen, 
Who is belov'd where never seen. 



HYMN, 

For the use of the Sunday School at Olney. 

HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r, 

In heav'n thy dwelling place. 
From infants made the publick care, 

And taught to seek thy face. 

Thanks for thy word and for thy day, 

And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste, in sinful play 

Thy holy sabbaths more. 

Thanks that we hear — ^but O impart 

To each desires sincere, 
That we may listen with our heart, 

And learn as well as hear. 

For if vain thoughts the minds engage 

Of older far than v/e, 
What hope that at our heedless age, 

Our minds should e'er be free ? 



STANZAS. 
Much hope, if thou our spirits take 

Under thy gracious sway, 
Who canst the wisest wiser make, 

And babes as wise as they. 

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 

A sun that ne'er declines, 
And be thy mercies shower'd on those, 

Who plac'd us where it shines 



STANZAS 



Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish 
of Ml- Saints, Kortkampton* Anno Domini 1787. 



Pallida Mors, ceqiio pulsat pede pauperum tabernaSf 

Regumque turres. Horace, 

Pale Death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor. 



WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run 

The Nen's barge-laden wave, 
All these, life's rambling journey done, 
Have found their home, the grave. 

Was man, (frail always) made more frail 

Than in foregoing years ? 
Did famine or did plague prevail. 

That so much death appears .' 

Composed for John CoX; parish clerk of Norlliampton. 
18* 



2i0 BILL OF MORTALITY. 

No ; tnese were vig'rous as their sires, 

Nor plague nor famine came ; 
This annual tribute Death requires, 

And never waves his claim. 

Like crowded forest-trees we stand, 

And some are mark d to fall ; 
The axe will smite at God's command. 
And soon shall smite us all. 

Green as the bay-tree, ever green, 

With its new foliage on, 
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 

I pass'd — and they were gone. 

Read, ye that run, the awful truth, 
"With which I charge my page ', 

A worm is in the bud of youth, 
And at the root of age. 

No present health can health ensure 

For yet an hour to come ; 
No med'cine, though it oft can cure, 

Can always balk the tomb. 

And O ! that humble as my lot. 

And scorn'd as is my strain, 
These truths, though known, too much forgot, 

I may not teach in vain. 

So prays your clerk with all his heart. 

And ere he quits the pen, 
Begs you for once to take his part, 

And answer all — Amen ! 



(211) 
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1788. 



Quod adest, memento 
Componere <zquus. Ccetrra fluminis 
Ritu ferunter. Horace. 

Improve the present hour, for all beside 
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide. 



COULD I, from Heav'n inspir'd, as sure presage 
To whom the rising year shall prove his last, 

As 1 can number in my punctual page, 
And item down the victims of the past ; 

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet 
On which the press might stamp him next to die, 

And reading here his sentence, how replete 

With anxious meaning, heav'nward turn his eye I 

Time then would seem more precious than the joys 
In which he sports away the treasure now ; 

And pray'r more seasonable than the noise 
Of drunkards, or the musick-drawing bow. 

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink 
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, 

Forc'd to a pause, would feel it good to think. 
Told that his setting sun must rise no more. 



212 BILL OF MORTALITY. 

Ah self-deceiv'd ! Could I prophetick say 
Who next is fated, and who next to fall, 

The rest might then seem privileg'd to play ; 
But naming none, the voice now spealts to ALL. 

Observe the dappled foresters, how light 
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade — 

One falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, 
Vanish at once into the darkest shade. 

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, 
Still need repeated warnings, and at last, 

A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, 
Die self-accus'd of life run all to waste ? 

Sad waste ! for which no after-thrift atones, 
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ; 

Dew-drops may deck the turf that hides the bones, 
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. 

Learn then ye living ! by the mouths be taught 
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true. 

That, soon or late, death also is your lot, 
And the next op'ning grave may yawn for you. 



^35^ 



(213) 
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1789. 



....Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit. Vieg. 

There calm at length he breath 'd his soul away. 



" O MOST delightful hour by man 

Experienc'd here below, 
The hour that terminates his span, 

His folly; and his wo ! 

Worlds should not bribe me back to tread 

Again life's dreary waste, 
To see again my day o'erspread 

With all the gloomy past. 

My home henceforth is in the skies. 

Earth, seas, and sun, adieu ! 
All Heav'n unfolded to my eyes, 

I have no sight for you." 

So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd 

Of faith's supporting rod, 
Then breath'd his soul into its rest, 

The bosom of his God. 

He was a man among the few 

Sincere on virtue's side ; 
And all his strength from Scripture drew, 

To hourly use applied. 



214 BILL OF MORTALITY. 

That rule he priz'd, by that he fear'd, 
He hated, hop'd, and lov'd ; 

Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd 
But when his heart had rov'd. 

For he was frail as thou or I, 

And evil felt within ; 
But when he felt it heav'd a sigh, 

And loath'd the thought of sin. 

Such liv'd Aspasio ; and at last 
Call'd up from Earth to Heav'n, 

The gulf of death triumphant pass'd. 
By gales of blessing driv'n. 

His joys be mine, each Reader cries, 
When my last hour arrives : 

They shall be yours, my verso replies, 
Such only be your lives. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1790. 



JVe eommonentem recta sperne. BuchanaiL 

Despise not my good counsel. 



HE who sits trora day to day, 
Where the prison'd lark is hung, 

Heedless of his loudest lay, 

Hardly knows that he has sung. 



BILL OF MORTALITY. 


215 


Where the watchman in his round 
Nightly lifts his voice on high, 

None, accustom'd to the sound, 
Wakes the sooner for his cry. 




So your verseman I and clerk, 
Yearly in my song proclaim 

Death at hand — ^yourselves his mark- 
And the foes unerring aim. 




Duly at my time I come, 

Publishing to all aloud — 
Soon the grave must be your homo, 
! And your only suit, a shroud. 


1 


1 

But the monitory strain, 
Ofl repeated in your ears, 
] Seems to sound too much in vain, 
j Wins no notice, wakes no fears. 




Can a truth, by all confess'd 
Of such magnitude and weight, 

Grow, by being oft impress'd, 
Trivial as a parrot's prate ? 




Pleasure's call attention wins, 
Hear it often as we may ; 




New as ever seem our sins. 
Though committed every day. 


1 


Death and Judgment, Heaven and Hell— 

These alone, so often heard, 
No more move us than the bell, 

When some stranger is interr'd. 




O then, ere the turf or tomb 
Cover us from every eye, 

Spirit of instruction come, 

Make us learn; that we must die. 




# 





(216) 
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1792. 



Felizj qui potuit rerum cognoscerc causaSf 
Mgue metiLS amnes et inexorabile fatum 
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari ! 

Virg. 
Happy the mortal, who has trac'd effects 
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, 
And death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires • 



THANKLESS for favours from on high j 

Man thinks he fades too soon ; 
Though 'tis his privilege to die, 

Would he improve the boon. 

But he, not wise enough to scan 

His best concerns aright, 
Would gladly stretch life's little span 

To ages, if he might. 

To ages in a world of pain. 

To ages, where he goes 
Gall'd by afiiiction's heavy chain. 

And hopeless of repose. 

Strange fondness of the human heart, 

Enamour'd of its harm I 
Strange world, that costs it so much smart, 

And still has pow'r to charm. 



BILL OF MORTALITY. 811 

Whence has the world her magick pow'r ? 

Why deem we death a foe ? 
Recoil from weary life's best hour. 

And covet longer wo ? 

The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft 

Her tale of guilt renews ; 
Her voice is terrible, though soft, 
And dread of death ensues. 

Then, anxious to be longer spar'd, 

Man mourns his fleeting breath : 
All evils then seem light, compar'd 

With the approach of Death. 

'Tis Judgment shakes him, there's the fear 

That prompts the wish to stay : 
He has incurr'd a long arrear, 

And must despair to pay. 

Pay ! — follow Christ, and all is paid . 

His death your peace ensures ; 
Think on the grave where he was laid, 

And calm descend to yours. 
Vol. H. 19 



(218) 
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, 

FOR THE YEAR 1793. 



De sacris autem hoc sic iina sententia, ut conserventur, 

Cic. de Leg. 
But let us all concur in i.his one sentiment, that 
things sacred be inviolate. 

He lives, who hves to God alone 

And all are dead beside ; 
For other source than God is none 

Whence life can bo supplied. 

To live to God is to requite 

His love as best we may : 
To make his precepts our delight. 

His promises our stay. 

But life, within a narrow ring 

Of giddy joys compris'd, 
Is falsely nam'd, and no such thing, 

But rather death disguis'd. 

Can life in them deserve the name. 

Who only live to prove 
For what poor toys they can disclaim 

An endless life above. 

Who much diseas'd, yet nothing feel ; 

Much menac'd. nothing dread , 
Have wounds, which only God can heal. 

Yet never ask his aid ? 



BILL OF MORTALITY. 219 

Who deem his house a useless place, 

Faith want of common sense j 
And ardour in the Christian race, 

A hypocrite's pretence ? 

Who trample order ; and the day, 

Which God asserts his own, 
Dishonour with unhallow'd play. 

And worship chance alone ? 

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd 

On word and deed, imply 
The better part of man unbless'd 

With life that cannot die ; 

Such want it, and tliat want uncur'd 

Till man resigns his breath. 
Speaks him a criminal, assur'd 

Of everlasting death. 

Sad period to a pleasant course ! 

Yet so will God repay 
Sabbaths profan'd without remorse, 

And mercy cast away. 



(220) 
INSCRIPTION, 

FOR THE TOMB CF MR. HAMILTON. 



PAUSE here, and think : a monitory rhyme 
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. 

Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ; 
Seems it to say — " Health here has long to reign ?'♦ 
Hast thou the vigoiir of thy youth ? an eye 
That beams delight ? a heart untaught to sigh ? 
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease, 
Anticipates a day it never sees ; 
And many a tomb, like Haviilton''s, aloud 
Exclaims, " Prepare thee for an early shroud." 



EPITAPH ON A HARE. 



HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 

Nor swifter grayhound follow, 
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 



i Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo, 

i 
I 
I Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 

Who, nurs'd with tender care, 

And to domestick bounds confin'd, 

Was still a wild Jack-hare 



EPITAPH ON A HARE. 221 

Though duly from my hand he took 

His pittance ev'ry night, 
He did it with a jealous look, 

And, when he could, would bite, 

His diet was of wheaten bread. 

And milk, and oats, and straw; 
Thistles, or lettuces instead. 

With sand to scour his maw. 

On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd, 

On pippen's russet peel. 
And, when his juicy salads fail'd, 

Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well. 

A turkey carpet was his lawn 

Whereon he lov'd to bound, 
To skip and gambol lilvC a fawn, 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at ev ning hours, 

For then he lost his fear, 
But most before approaching show'rs, 

Or when a storm drew near. 

Eight years and five round rolling moons 

He thus saw steal away. 
Dozing out all his idle noons. 

And ev'ry night at play. 

I kept him for his humour's sake. 

For he would oft beguile 
My heart of thoughts, that made it ache, 

And force me to a smile. 

But now beneath this walnut shade 

He finds his long last home. 
And waits, in snug concealment laid, 

Till gentler Puss shall come 
10 ^ 



222 EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM. 

He, still more aged, feels the shocks, 

From which no care can save. 
And, partner once of Tiney's box, 

Must soon partake his grave. 



EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM. 

Hie etiam jacet, 

Qui totum novennium vixit, 

Puss. 

Siste paulisper, 

Qui praiteriturus es, 

Et tecum sic reputa — 

Hunc neque canis venaticus, 

Nee plumbum missile, 

Nee laqueus, 

Nee imbres nimii, 

Confecere : 

Tamen mortuus est — 

Et moriar ego. 



(223) 



The following account of the treatment of his 
hares was inserted by mr. cowper in the gen- 
tleman's magazine, whence it is transcribed. 



IN the year 1774, being much indisposed both in 
mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either 
with company or books, and j^et in a condition that 
made some diversion necessary, I was glad of any 
thing that would engage my attention without fa- 
tiguing it The children of a neighbo^jr of mine had 
a leveret given them for a plaything ; it was at that 
time about three months old. Understanding better 
how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and 
soon becoming weary of their cliarge, they readily con- 
sented that their father, who saw it pii: Dg and grow- 
ing leaner every day, should offer it to my acceptance. 
I was willing enough to take the prisoner under my 
protection, perceiving that, in the management of such 
an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should find 
just that sort of employment whicli my case required. 
It was soon known among the neighbours that I was 
pleased with the present ; and the consequence was, 
that in a short time I had as many leverets offered to 
me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the 
care of three, which it is necessary that I should hero 
distinguish by the names I gave them — Puss, Tiney, 
and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appella- 
tives, 1 must inform you that they were all males. Ira- 
nieuiately commencing carpenter, I built them houses 
to sleep in ; each had a separate apartment, so contriv- 
ed, that their ordure would pajs through the bottom 
of it ; an earthen pan placed under each received what- 
soever fell, which being duly emptied and washed, 
they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the 
daytime they had the range of a hall, and at night re- 



( 224 ) 
tired, each to his own bed, never intruding into that of 
another. 

Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my 
lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the 
hair from my temples. He would suffer me to take 
him up, and to carry him about in ray arms, and has 
more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He 
was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, 
kept him apart from his fellows, that they might not 
molest him, (for, like many other wild animals, they 
persecute one of their own species that is sick,) and by 
constant care, and trying him with a variety of herbs, 
restored him to perfect health. No creature could be 
more grateful than my patient after his recovery ; a 
sentiment which he most significantly expressed by 
licking my liand, first the back of it, ihen the palm, 
then every finger separately, then between all the fin- 
gers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted ; a 
ceremony which he never performed but once again 
upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely tract- 
able, I made it my custom to carry him always after 
breakfast into the garden, where he hid himself gene- 
rally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or 
chewing the cud till evening : in the leaves also of 
that vine he found a favourite repast. I had not long 
habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he began 
to be impatient for the return of the time when he 
might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by 
drumming upon my knee, and by a look of such ex- 
pression, as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this 
rhetorick did not immediately succeed, he would take 
the skirt of rny coat between his teeth, and pull at it 
with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be per- 
fectly tamed, the shynfiss of his nature was done away, 
and on the whole it was visible by many symptoms, 
which 1 have not room to enumerate, that he was hap • 
pier in human society than when shut up with his na« 
tural companions. 



( 225 } 

Not so Tlney ; upon him the kindest treatment had 
not the least effect. He, too, was sick, and in his sick- 
ness had an equal share of my attention ; but if aftei 
his recovery I took the liberty to stroke him, ho would 
grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and 
bite. He was, hovi^ever, very entertaining in his way ; 
even his surliness was matter of mirth ; and in his 
play he preserved such an air of gravity, and perform- 
ed his feats with such a solemnity of manner, that in 
him, too, I had an agreeable companion. 

Bess, who died soon after he v/as full grown, and 
whose death was occasioned by his being turned into 
his Dox, which had been washed, while it was yet damp, 
was a hare of great humour and drollery. Puss was 
tamed by gentle usage ; Tiney was not to be tamed at 
all : and Bess had a courage and confidenc3 that made 
him tame from the beginning. I always admitted them 
into the parlour after supper, when the carpet afford- 
ing their feet a firm hold, they would frisk, and bound 
and play a thousand gambols, in which Bess, being re- 
markably strong and fearless, was always superiour to 
the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. 
One evening the cat, being in the room, had the hardi- 
ness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which 
he resented by drumming upon her back with such 
violence, that the cat was happy to escape from under 
his paws, and hide herself. 

I describe these animals as having each a charac- 
ter of his own. Such they were in fact, and their 
countenances were so expressive of that 'Character, 
that, when I looked onl}-^ on the face of either, 1 im- 
mediately knew which it was. It is said that a shep- 
herd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes so 
familiar with their features, that he can, by that indi- 
cation only, distinguish each from all the rest ; and 
yet, to a common observer, the difference is hardly 
perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrmiination 
in tliB cast of countenances would be discoverable in 



( 226 ) 
hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of 
them, no tvrr could be found exactly similar ; a circum- 
stance little suspected by those who have not had op- 
portunity to observe it. These creatures have a sin- 
gular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration 
that is made in the place to which they are accustom- 
ed and instantly apply their nose to the examination 
of a new object. A small hole being burnt in the car- 
pet, it was mended with a patch, and that patch in a 
moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem, 
too, to be very much directed by the smell in the choice 
of their favourites ; to some persons, though they saw 
them daily, they could never be reconciled, and would 
even scream when they attempted to touch them ; but 
a miller coming in, engaged their affections at once : 
his powdered coat had charms that were irresistible. 
It is no wonder that my intimate acquaintance with 
these specimens of the kind, has taught me to hold the 
sportsman's amusement in abhorrence : he little knows 
what amiable creatures he persecutes, of what grati- 
tude they are capable, how cheerful they are in their 
spirits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that, 
impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man^ 
it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it. 

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short 
Bummary of these articles of diet that suit them best. 

I take it to be a general opinion that they graze, but 
it is an erroneous one ; at least grass is not their sta- 
])le ; they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quit- 
ting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dan- 
delion, and lettuce, are their favourite vegetables, es- 
pecially the last. I discovered by accident that fine 
white sand is in great estimation with them ; I sup- 
pose as a digestive. It happened that I was cleaning 
a bird cage while the hares were with me : I placed a 
pot filled with sucli sand upon the floor, which, being 
at once directed to by a strong instinct, they devoured 
voraciously ; since that time I have generally taken 



(227 ) 
care to see ul au well supplied with it. They account 
green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear 
they seldom eat ; straw of any kind, especially wheat 
straw, is another of their dainties ; they will feed 
greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw 
never want them ; it serves them also for a bed, and 
if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a 
considerable time. They do not indeed require aro- 
matick herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them 
with great relish, and are particularly fond of the plant 
called musk : they seem to resemble sheep in this, that 
if their pasture be too succulent, they are very subject 
to the rot : to prevent v/hich, I always made bread 
their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with it 
cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their 
chambers, for they feed only at evening, and in the 
night : during the winter, when vegetables were not 
to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of 
carrot, adding to it the rind of apples cut extremely 
thin ; for, though they are fond of the paring, the ap- 
ple itself disgusts them. These, however, not being 
a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer herbs, 
they must at this time be supplied with water ; but so 
placed, that they cannot overset it into their beds. I 
must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleas- 
ed with twigs of hawthorn and of the common brier, 
eating even the very wood whei* it is of considerable 
thickness. 

Bess, I have said, died young j Tiney lived to be 
nine years old, and died at last. I have reason to 
think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall : Puss is still 
living, and has just completed his tenth year, disco 
vering no signs of decay, nor even of age, except that 
he is grown more discreet and less frolicksome than 
he was. I cannot conclude without observing, that I 
have lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance — a 
spaniel that had never seen a hare, to a hare that had 
never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but 



( 228 ) 
there was no real need of it. Puss discovered no to- 
ken of fear, nor Marquis the least pynjptora of hostility. 
There is, therefore, it should aeerr. r.o natural antipa- 
thy between dog- and hare, but the pursuit of the one 
occasions the flight of the othei, ard the dog pursues 
because he is trained to it ; they eat bread at the same 
time out of the same hand, and are in all respects 
sociable and friendly. 

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did 
f not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to 
them ; that they are indefatigably nice in keeping 
themselves clean, for which purpose nature has fur- 
nished them with a brush under each foot ; and that 
they are never infested by any vermin. 
May 28, 1784 

Memorandum found among Mr. Coioper^s papers. 

Tuesday, March 9, 1786 
This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven 
months. He died between twelve and one at noon, ot 
mere old age, and apparently without pain. 



END OF VOL. 11, 



POEMS, 

BY 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESa 

TOGETHER WITH HIS 

POSTHUMOUS POETRY, 

AND 

A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 
BY JOHN JOHNSON, LL. D. 



THREE VOLUMES IN OiNE. 



NEW EDITION. 

BOSTON 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & CO., 

110 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1849. 



RIGHT HONOURABLE 

EARL SPENCER. 

— ©i©^— 

MY LORD, 

A GENERAL request having encouraged me to become 
the Editor of a more complete collection of the post- 
humous compositions of my revered relation, the poet 
CowPER, than has hitherto appeared, I consider it as 
my duty to the deceased, to inscribe the volume that 
contains them to his exalted friend, by whom the ge- 
nius of the poet was as justly appreciated, as the virtues 
of the moralist were effectually patronized. It would 
be impertinent in me to attempt any new encomium 
on a writer so highly endeared to every cultivated 
mind in that country which it was the favourite exer- 
cise of his patriotick spirit to describe and to celebrate : 
but I may be allowed to observe, that one of the few 
additions inserted in this collection will be particular- 
ly welcome to every reader of sensibility, as an eulogy 
on that attractive quality so gracefully visible in all 
the writings of Cowper. 

Permit me to close this imperfect tribute of my re- 
spect, by saying, it is my deep sense of those impor- 
tant services, for which the afflicted poet was indebted 
to the kindness of Lord Spencer, that impels me to 
the liberty I am now taking, of thus pubiickly declar- 
ing myself 

Your Lordsliip's 

Highly obliged, and 
Very faithful servant, 
JOHN JOHNSON. 



PREFACE, 



It is incumbent on me to apprize the reader tnat, 
by far the greater part of the poems to which I have 
now the honour to introduce him, have been already 
published by Mr. Hayley. That endeared friend of 
the deceased poet having enriched his copious and 
faithful life of him with a large collection of his minor 
pieces soon after his death, and having since given to 
the world a distinct edition of his Translations from the 
Latin and Italian verses of Milton, every thing seem- 
ed to be accomplished that the merits and memory of 
a poet, so justly popular as Cowper, appeared to re- 
quire. But of late years a fresh and detached collec- 
tion of all his poems being wished for by his friends, I 
was flattered by their request, that I would present 
them to the publick as the editor of his third poetical 
volume. 

Having accepted this honourable invitation, my 
first care was to assemble as many of the editions of 
the two former volumes as I could possibly meet with, 
that nothing might be admitted into their projected 
companion which the publick already possessed in 
them. With one slight exception I believe I secured 
that desirable point. My next employment was to 
make such a copious but careful selection from the 
unpublished poetry of Cowper, which I happily pos- 
sessed, and which I had only imparted to a few friends, 
as, while it gratified his admirers, might in no instance 
detract from his poetical reputation. I should tremble 
for the hazard to which my partiality to the compo- 
sitions of my beloved relation exposed me in discharg- 
ing this part of my office, if I did not hope to find in 



PREFACE. 5 

the reader a fondness of the same kind , and if 1 
were not assured that a careless or slovenly habit, in 
the production of his verses, has never been imputed 
to the author of the Task. 

The materials of the volume beJng thus provided, 
the ascertaining their dates was my remaining con- 
cern. In a few instances I found them affixed to the 
poems by their author ; a few more I collected from 
intimations in his letters ; but in several, tlie difficulty 
of discovering them pressed upon myself This was 
especially the case with the very interesting additional 
poem addressed by Cowper to an unknown lady on 
reading " the Praxjer for Indifference^ Of the ex- 
istence of these verses I had not even heard till I was 
called on to superintend the volume, in which they 
make their first publick appearance. 1 am inclined to 
believe, that during the ten years of my domestick 
intercourse with the poet, they had never occurred to 
his recollection. He appears to have imparted them 
only to his highly valued and affijctionate relative, the 
Reverend Martin Madan, brother of the late Bishop 
of Peterborough, from whose Common-place Book 
they were transcribed by his daughter, and kindly 
communicated to me. There being nothing in Mr. 
Madan's copy of these verses from which their date 
could be inferred, it was only by a minute comparison 
of the poem itself with the various local and mental 
circumstances, which his life exhibits, that I was en- 
abled to discover the year of their production. The 
labour attending this and other instances of research, 
in which I have been obliged to engage for the pvn*- 
pose of ascertaining the dates of several minor poems, 
will be best understood by those who are practically 
acquainted with similar investigations. After all, 
there are some of which no diligence of mine could 
develope the exact time ; but with the greater number 
I trust their proper order of succession has been care- 
fully secured to them. 
1* 



V 



G PREFACE. 

From this brief account of the volume before the 
reader, I pass on to the memoir of its author. Had I not 
already embarked in a preparation of the poems, when 
I was requested to prefix a sketch of the poet's life, an 
unaffected distrust of my ability to achieve it would 
have precluded me from making such an attempt ; but 
a peculiar interest in these relicks of Cowper having 
been wrought into my feelings, while I was arranging 
them for the press, I was unwilling to shrink from a 
oroposed task, by which I might hope to contribute, in 
some degree, to the expanding renown of my revered 
relation. I therefore venture to advance on the only 
path in the wild field of biography, in v*'hich my hum- 
ble steps could accompany Cowper, namely, that in 
which I could simply 



(As in a map, the voyager his course,) 

The windings of his way through many years." 

Into this path it might seem presumptuous in me to 
invite those whom my kind and constant friend, Mr. 
Hayley, has made intimately acquainted with Cowper, 
by his extensive and just biography ; but to such 
readers as happen not to have perused his more copious 
work, I may venture to recommend the following 
" Map of Cowper's Life," as possessing one of its 
prime characteristicks, namely, fidelity of delineation. 

Bedford^ MpriL, 1815 



CONTENTS. 




-^«@©-M- 




Sketch of the Author's life 


13 


Verses written on finding the Heel of a Shoe 


62 


Stanzas on the First Publication of Sir Charles 




Grandison .... 


63 


Epistle to Robert Lloyd, Esq. 


64 


Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace 


67 


Ninth Satire of the First Book of Horace 


74 


Address to Miss , on reading the prayer for 


i 


Indifference .... 


79 


Translation from Virgil 


82 


Ovid. Trist. Lib. V. Eleg. XH. 


94 


A Tale founded on a Fact - 


96 


Translation of a Simile in Paradise Lost 


98 


Translation of Dryden's Epigram on Milton 


ib. 


To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his Return from 




1 Ramsgate .... 


99 


1 ■ Love Abused .... 


ib. 


1 Poetical Epistle to Lady Austen 


100 


From a letter to the Rev. Mr. Newton 


104 


The Colubriad .... 


105 


On Friendship . . . . 


106 


On the Loss of the Royal George 


112 


In Submersionem Navigii, cui Georgiua Regalis 




Nomen, inditum 


114 


Song on Peace - . . . 


115 


Song, written at the request of Lady Austen 


116 


Verses from a Poem entitled Valediction 


117 


In Ercvitatem Vitoe Spatii Hominibus concessi 


119 


On the Shortness of Human life - 


ib. 



B CONTEiNTS. 

Epitaph on Johnson ... 120 

To Miss C , on her Birth-day - - ib. 

Gratitude ..... 121 

The Flatting Mill - - - - 123 

Lines for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, Esq. 124 

On the Queen's Visit to London - - ib. 

The Cock-fighter's Garland . - - 127 
On the Benefit received by his Majesty from 

Sea-Bathing .... 130 

Hor. Lib. L Ode IX. ... ib. 

Hor. Lib. L Ode XXXVIL - - 131 

Hor. B. L Ode XXXVIIL - - - 132 

Hor. Lib. n. Ode XVL ... ib. 

Latin Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd - 134 

The same in English . - _ 135 

To Mrs. Throckmorton - - - 136 
Inscription for a Stone erected at the sowing of 

a Grove of Oaks - - - 137 

Another, for a Stone erected on a similar occasion 138 

Hymn for the Sunday School at Olney - ib. 
On the late indecent Liberties taken with the 

Remains of Milton - - - 139 
To Mrs. King .... - 141 
Anecdote of Homer . _ . 142 
In Memory of the late J. Thornton, Esq. - 144 
The Four Ages .... 145 
The Judgment of the Poets - - - 147 
To Charles Diodati ... 150 
On the Death of the University Beadle at Cam- 
bridge .... 153 
On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester - 154 
To his Tutor, Thomas Young - - 157 
On the Approach of Spring - - - 161 
To Charles Diodati - - - 165 
Composed in the Author's Nineteenth Year - 168 
Epigram. — On the Inventor of Guns - 171 
Epigram. — To Leonora, singing at Rome - 172 
Epigram. -To the same ... ib. 



i 

1 

CONTENTS. 




() 


1 The Cottager and his Landlord 


. 


173 . 


To Christiana, Queen of Sweden - 




ib. 


On the Death of a Physician 


- 


174 


I On the Death of the Bishop of Ely 




17G 


Nature unimpaired by Time - 


- 


178 


On the Platonick Idea 




181 


To his father .... 


- 


182 


To Salsillus, a Roman Poet 




187 


To Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa 


189 


On the Death of Damon - 




393 


i An Ode addressed to Mr. John Rouse 


- 


203 


Sonnet ..... 




207 


1 Sonetto - - _ - 


- 


ib. j 


Sonnet , - . - - 




208 1 


Sonetto - - . . 


- 


ib. 


Canzone - - - - - 




209 


Canzone . - _ . 


• 


ib 


Sonnet.— To Charles Diodati 




210 


Sonetto . - _ - 


. 


ib. 


Sonnet - - _ _ _ 




211 1 


Sonetto - - _ - 


- 


ib. 1 


Sonnet ... - - 




212 


Sonetto - - - - 


- 


ib. 1 


Epitaph on Mrs. M. Higgins, of Weston - 




213 i 


The Retired Cat - - - 


. 


ib. 1 


YardleyOak .... 




217 1 


To the Nightingale ... 


- 


222 


i Lines written for Insertion in a collection of 


1 
1 


Hand-writings and Signatures made 


by 




1 Miss Patty, Sister of Hannah More 




223 


Epitaph on a Redbreast ... 




ib. I 


Sonnet to W. Wilberforce, Esq. 


- 


224 i 


1 Epigram - - » . . 




225 


To Dr. Austin 


. 


226 


Sonnet, addressed to William Hayley, Esq. 




227 


Catharina - . . . 


- 


228 


An Epitaph .... 




229 


Epitaph on Fop - . _ 




230 



la CONTENTS. 

Sonnet to George Romncy, Esq. - - 230 

On receiving Hajley's Picture - - 231 

Epitaph on Mr. Chester, of Chicheley - 232 

On a Plant of Virgin's bower - - ib 

To my cousin, Anna Bodham - - 233 
Inscription for an Hermitage in the Author's 

Garden ... - 234 

To Mrs. Unwin - - • - ib 

To John Johnson - - - - 235 

To a young Friend ... - 236 

A Tale ib 

To William Hayley, Esq. - - - 240 

On a Spaniel, called Beau, killing a Bird - 241 

Beau's Reply ----- 242 
Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh 243 

To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina - ib. 

On Flaxnian's Penelope ... 244 

On receiving Heyne's Virgil - - - ib. 

To Mary .... - 245 

Montes Glaciales - . - 247 

On the Ice Islands - - - 249 

The Castaway - - - - 251 

Thrax 253 

The Thracian ----- 254 

Mutua Bencvolentia - - - ib. 

Reciprocal Kindness - - - - 256 

Manuale - - - - . 257 

A Manual 258 

/Enigma ----- 260 

An Enigma ----- 2G1 

Passeres Indigence - - - . 262 

Sparrows self-domesticated - - - 263 

NuUi te facias nimis sodalem - - 264 

Familiarity Dangerous - - ib. 

Ad Rubeculam Invitatio - - - 265 

Invitation to the Redbreast - - 266 

Stradce Philomela - - _ - 267 

Stradas Nightingale - - - - ib 



r 

1 

CONTENTS. 


11 


Anus Ssecularis . . . « 


268 


Ode on the Death of a Lady 


270 


Victoria Forensis - - - 


271 


The Cause Won 


272 


Bombyx . - - - - 


ib. 


The Silk Worm 


273 


Innocens Proedatrix 


274 


The Innocent Thief - 


ib. 


Denneri Anus 


27G 


Denner's Old Woman 


277 


Lacrymae Pictoris ... 


278 


The Tears of a Painter 


ib. 1 


1 Spe Finis ..... 


280 1 


1 The Maze 


ib. 


Nemo Miser nisi comparatus 


ib. 


No Sorrow peculiar to the Sufferer - 


281 


1 Limax . . . - - 


ib. 


1 The Snail . . . - 


282 


Eques Academicus ... 


283 


I The Cantab - . . - . 


ib. 


i The Salad, by Virgil 


284 


From the Greek of Julianus « 


■ 289 


j On the same, by Palaadas . . - 


ib. 


An Epitaph - - . - . 


290 


Another - . . - - 


ib. 


Another . . . - . 


ib. 


Another - ... 


201 


By Callimachus . . . . 


. ib. 


On Miltiades ... 


ib. ! 


On an Infant - . . - 


. 292 


By Heraclides - . • - 


ib. 


On the Reed - - . . 


ib. 


To Health .... 


293 


On the Astrologers - . . . 


294 


On an Old Woman 


ib. 


On Invalids - . - - , 


ib. 


On Flatterers .... 


295 


On the Swallow . . - 


ib. 



12 CONTENTS. 

On late acquired Wealth - 

On a True Friend 

On a Bath, by Plato 

On a Fowler, by Isiodorus 

On Niobe - - - 

On a Good Man 

On a Miser 

Another 

Another - 

On Female Inconstancy 

On the Grasshopper - 

On Hermocratia 

From Menander 

On Pallas, bathing 

To Demosthenes 

On a Similar Character 

On an Ugly Fellow 

On a Battered Beauty 

On a Thief 

On Pedigree 

On Envy 

By Philemon 

By Moschus 

In Ignorantem arrogantem Linum 

On one Ignorant and Arrogant 

Prudens Simplicitas 

Prudent Simplicity 

Ad Amicum Pauperum 

To a Friend in Distress 

Lex Talionis 

Retaliation 

De Ortu et Occasu 

Sunset and Sunrise 

Lepus multis Amicus 

Avarus et Plutus 

Papilio et Limax 



- 


- 


296 


. 




ib. 


- 




ib. 


. 




297 


. 




ib. 


" ■ 




ib. 


- 




298 


. 




ib. 


- 


- 


ib. 






299 


• • 




ib. 


- 




300 


. 




ib. 


. 




301 


. 




302 


. 




ib. 






303 


. 




ib. 






ib. 


- 




304 


- 




ib. 


. 




305 


. 




306 


num 




307 


it 




ib. 


. 




ib. 


. 




ib. 


•• 




ib. 


. 




ib. 


• 




308 


. 




ib. 


. 




ib. 


. 




ib. 


. 




309 


- 




. 311 


m 




312 



SKETCH 



OP 



THE LIFE OF COWPER. 



William Cowper, the subject of the following brief 
Memoir, was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hert- 
fordshire, on the fifteenth of November, 1731. His 
father, the Rev. John Cowper, D. D. Rector of that 
place, and one of the chaplains of King George the 
Second, married Anne, daughter of Roger Donne, 
Esq. of Lodham-hall, in the county of Norfolk. She 
died in childbed on the thirteenth of November, 1737 j 
and he of a paralytick seizure on the tenth of July, 
1756. Of five sons and two daughters, the issue of 
this marriage, William and John only survived their 
parents : the rest died in their infancy. 

Such was his origin ; — but it must be added, that the 
highest blood of the realm flowed in the veins of the 
modest and unassuming Cowper. It is perhaps already 
known that his grandfather, Spencer Cowper, was \ 

Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, and next brother ' 

to William, first Earl Cowper, and Lord High Chan- 
cellor of England : but his mother was descended 
through the families of Hippesley of Throughley, in 
Sussex, and Pellet of Bolney, in the same county 1 

from the several noble houses of West, Knollys, Ca- 
rey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray ; and so by four 
diiferent lines from Henry the Third king of England. 
Distinctions of this nature can shed no additional lustre 

Vol. 2 



14 SKETCH OF THE 

on the memory of Cowper ; but genius, however ex- 
alted, disdains not, while it boasts not, the splendour 
of ancestry : and royalty itself may be flattered, and 
perhaps benefited, by discovering its kindred to such 
piety, such purity, such talents as his. 

The simplicity of the times that witnessed the child- 
hood of Cowper, assigned him his first instruction at a 
day-school in his native village. The reader may re- 
collect an allusion to this circumstance in his beautiful 
Monody on the receipt of his mother's Picture, 

" the gard'ner Robin, day by day 
Drew me to sciiool along the publick way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap." 

On the death of the beloved parent, who is so tenderly 
commemorated in that exquisite poem, and who just 
lived to see him complete his sixth year, he was placed 
under the care of Dr. Pitman, of Market-street, a few 
miles distant from the paternal roof At this respecta- 
ble academy he remained till he was eight years of 
age, when the alarming appearance of specks on both 
his eyes induced his father to send him to the house of 
a female oculist in London. Her attempts, however, 
to relieve him, were unsuccessful, and at the expira- 
tion of two years he exchanged her residence for that 
of Westminister-school, where, sometime afterwards a 
remedy was unexpectedly provided for him in the 
small-pox, which, as he says in a letter to Mr. Hayley, 
•' proved the better occulist of the two." What de- 
gree of proficiency, as to the rudiments of education, 
he carried with him to this venerable establishment, at 
the head of which w^as Dr. Nichols, does not appear, 
but that he left it in the year 1749, with scholastick 
attainments of the first order, is be3^ond a doubt. 

After spending three months with his father at Berk- 
hampstead, he was placed in the family of a Mr. Chap- 
man, a solicitor, in London, with a view to his instruc 



LIFE OF COWPER. J5 

tion in the practice of the law. To this gentleman he 
was engaged b}^ articles, for three years. The oppor- 
tunities, however, which a residence in the house of 
his legal tutor afforded him, for attaining the skill that 
he was supposed to be in search of, were so far from at- 
taching him to legal studies, that he spent the greater 
part of his time in the house of a near relation. This 
he playfully confesses in the following passage of a let- 
ter to a daughter of that relative, more than thirty years 
after the time he describes : " I did actually live three 
years with Mr. Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I 
slept three years in his house ; but I lived, that is to 
say. I spent my days in Southampton- row, as you very 
well remember. There was I, and the future Lord 
Chancellor, constantly employed from morning to 
night in giggling and making giggle, instead of study- 
ing the law.. Oh fie, cousin ! how could you do so .'" 
Tlie subject of this spriglitly remonstrance was the 
lady Hesketli, who so materially contributed to the 
comfort of the dejected poet in his declining years j 
and the chancellor alluded to was lord Thurlow. This 
trifling anecdote is no otherwise worthy of record, 
than as it may serve to show, that the profession which 
his friends had selected for him, had nothing in it con- 
genial with the mind of Cowper. 

The three years for which he had been consigned 
to the ofRce of the solicitor being expired, at the age 
of twenty-one he took possession of a set of chambers 
in the Inner Temple. By this step he became, or ra- 
ther ought to have become, a regular student of law ; 
but it soon appeared that the higher pursuits of jurispru- 
dence were as little capable of fixing his attention, as 
the elementary parts of that science had proved. It is 
not to be supposed, indeed, that at this maturer age, he 
continued those habits of idleness and dissipation which 
have alread)'^ been noticed ; but it is certain, from a 
colloquial account of his early years, with which he 
favoured his friend Mr. Hayley, that literature, and 



16 SKETCH OF THE 

particularly of a poetical kind, was his principal pur- 
suit in the Temple. In the cultivation of studies so 
agreeable to his taste, he could not fail to associate 
occasionally with such of his Westminster school-fel- 
lows as were resident in London, and whom he knew 
to be eminent literary characters. The elder Colman, 
Bonn el Thornton, and Lloyd, were especially of this 
description. With these, therefore, he seems to have 
contracted the greatest intimacy, assisting the two for- 
mer in their periodical publication, The Connoisseur ; 
and the latter, as Mr. Hayley conjectures, in the works 
which his slender finances obliged him to engage in. 
The Duncombes also, father and son, two amiable 
scholars of Stocks, in Hertfordshire, and intimate 
friends of his surviving parent, were among the writers 
of the time, to whose poetical productions Cowper con- 
tributed. In short, the twelve years which he spent in 
the Temple, were, if not entirely devoted to classical 
pursuits, yet so much engrossed by them as to add 
little or nothing to the slender stock of legal knowledge 
which he had previously acquired in the house of the 
solicitor. 

The prospect of a professional income of his own 
acquiring, under circumstances like these, being out of 
the question, and his patrimonial resources being near- 
ly exhausted, it occurred to him, towards the end of the 
above-mentioned period, that not only was his long 
cherished wish of settling in matrimonial life, thus 
painfully precluded, but he was even in danger of per- 
sonal want. It is not unlikely that his friends were 
aware of tiie probability of such an event, from the 
uniform inattention he had shown to his legal studies , 
for in the thirty-first year of his age they procured him 
a nomination to the offices of reading-clerk and clerk 
of the private Committees in the House of Lords. 
But he was by no means qualified for discharging the 
duties annexed to either of these employments ; nature 
liavmg assigned him such an extreme tenderness of 



LIFE OF COWPER 17 

spirit, as, to use his own powerful expression, made a 
publlcli exhibition of himself, under any circumstances, 
'' mortal poison" to him. No sooner, therefore, had he 
adverted to the consequence of his accepting so con- 
spicuous an appointment, the splendour of which he 
confesses to have dazzled him into a momentary con- 
sent, than, it forcibly striking him at the same time, 
that such a favourable opportunity for his marrying 
might never occur again, his mind became the seat of the 
most conflicting sensations. These continued and in- 
creased, for the space of a week, to such a painful de- 
gree, that seeing no possible way of recovering any 
measure of his former tranquillity, except by resigning 
the situation which the kindness of his friends had 
jjrocured him, he most earnestly entreated that they 
would allow him to do so. To this, though with great 
reluctance, they at length consented, he having offer- 
ed to exchange it for a much less lucrative indeed, but 
as he flattered himself, a less irksome office, which 
was also vacant at that time, namely, the clerkship of 
the journals in the House of Lords. 

The return of sometliing like composure to the mind 
of Cowper was the consequence of this arrangement 
between him and his friends. It was a calm however^ 
but of short duration ; for he had scarcely been possess 
ed of it three days, Avhen an unhappy and unforeseen 
incident not only robbed him of this semblance of com 
fort, but involved him in more than his forme* 
distress. A dispute in parliament, in reference to th» 
last mentioned appointment, laid him under the for- 
midable necessity of a personal appearance at the bar 
of the house of Lords, that his fitness for the under 
taking might be publickly acknowledged. The trem« 
bling apprehension with w^hich the timid and exquisitely 
sensible mind of this amiable man could not fail to 
look forward to an event of this sort, rendered every 
intermediate attempt to prepare himself for the ex- 
amination completely abortive • and the conscious- 
2* 



18 SKETCH OF THE 

ness that it did so, accumulated his terrours. These 
liad risen, in short, to a confusion of mind so incom- 
patible with the integrity of reason, when the eve 
of the dreaded ceremony actually arrived, that his in- 
tellectual powers sunk under it. He was no longer 
himself. 

In this distressing situation it was found necessary, 
in the month of December, 1763, to remove him to St. 
Alban's ; from whence, through the skilful and humane 
treatment of Dr. Cotton, under whose care he was plac- 
ed, his friends hoped that he would soon return in the 
full enjoyment of his former faculties. In the most 
material part of their wish it pleased God to indulge 
them, his recovery being happily effected in some 
what less than eight months. Instead, however, of re- 
visiting the scenes in which his painful calamity had 
first occurred, he remained with his amiable physician 
nearly a twelve month after he had pronounced his 
cure : and that from motives altogether of a devotional 
kind. 

On this part of the poet's history it may be proper to 
observe that although, if viewed as an originating 
cause, the subject of religion had not the remotest con- 
nexion with his mental calamity ; yet no sooner had 
the disorder assumed the shape of hypochondriasis, 
which it did in a very early stage of its progress, than 
those sacred truths which prove an unfailing source of 
the most salutary contemplation to the undisturbed 
mind, were, through the influence of that distorting 
medium, converted into a vehicle of intellectual poi- 
son. 

A most erroneous and unhappy idea has occupied the 
minds of some persons, that those views of Christianity 
which Cowper adopted, and of which, when enjoying 
the intervals of reason, he was so bright an ornament, 
had actually contributed to excite the malady with 
which he was afflicted. It is capable of the clearest 
demonstration, that nothing was further from the truth. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 19 

On the contrary, all those alleviations of sorrow, those 
dehghtful anticipations of heavenly rest, those healing 
consolations to a wounded spirit, of which he was per- 
mitted to taste, at the periods when uninterrupted rea- 
son resumed its sway, were unequivocally to be ascrib- 
ed to the operation of those very principles and views 
of religion, which, in the instance before us, have 
been charged with producing so opposite an effect. 
The primary aberrations of his mental faculties were 
wholly to be attributed to other causes. But the 
time was at hand, when, by the happy interposition 
of a gracious Providence, he was to be the favoured 
subject of a double emancipation. The captivity of 
his reason was about to terminate ; and a bondage, 
though hitherto unmentioned, yet of a much longer 
standing, was on the point of being exchanged for the 
delightful of all freedom. 



A liberty unsun« 



By poets, and by senators uiiprais'd ; 

E'en ''liberty of heart,* deriv'd from heav'n : 
Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, 
And seal'd with the same token !"+ 

To the invaluable blessing of such a change he was as 
yet a stranger. He had been for some time convinced, 
and that on scriptural grounds, how much he stood in 
need of it, from a perception of the fetters with which, 
so long as he was capable of enjoying them, the plea- 
sures of the world and of sense had bound his heart ; 
but till the moment of his affliction, he had remained 
spiritually a prisoner. The hour was now come when 
his prison-doors were to be unfolded ; when " he that 
openeth and no man shutteth," was to give him a bless- 
ed experience of what 

'' Is liberty : a flight into his arms 

Ere yet morlality's fine threads give way, 

* Horn. viii. 21 t The Task, Book V. 



80 SKETCH OF THE 

A clear escape from tyrannising-" sin, 
" And full immunity from penal wo !"* 

On the 25th of July, 17G4, his brother, the Rev. 
John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cambridge, 
having been informed by Dr. Cotton, that his patient 
was greatly amended, came to visit him. The first 
sight of so dear a relative in the enjoyment of health 
and happiness, accompanied as it was with an instan- 
taneous reference to Jiis own very different lot, occa- 
sioned in the breast of Cowper many painful sensations. 
For a few moments, the cloud of despondency which 
had been gradually removing, involved his mind in his 
former darkness. Light, however, was approaching. 
His brother invited him to walk in the garden ; where 
so effectually did he protest to him, that the appre- 
hensions he felt were all a delusion, that he burst into 
tears, and cried out, '' If it be a delusion, then am I 
the happiest of beings." During the remainder of the 
day, which he spent with this affectionate brother, the 
truth of the above assertion became so increasingly 
evident to him, that when he arose the next morning, 
he was perfectly well. 

This, however, was but a part of the happiness 
which the memorable day we are now arrived at had 
in store for the interesting and amiable Cowper. Be- 
fore he left the room in which he had breakfasted, he 
observed a Bible lying in the window-seat. He took it 
up. Except in a single instance, and that two months 
before, he had not ventured to open one since the early 
days of his abode at St. Alban's. But the time was 
now come when lie might do it to purpose. The pro- 
fitable pervisal of that divine book had been provided 
for in the most eff'ectual manner, by the restoration at 
once of the powers of his understanding, and the su- 
peradded ffift of a spiritual discernment. Under these 
favourable circumstances, he opened the sacred vo- 
* The Task, Book V. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 21 

eume at that passage of the epistle to the Romans, where 
the apostle says, that Jesus Christ is " set forth to be 
a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare 
his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, 
through the forbearance of God," To use the expres- 
sion employed by Cowper himself, in a written docu- 
ment from which this portion of his history is extract- 
ed, he '' received strength to believe it ;" to see the 
suitableness of the atonement of his own necessity, 
and to embrace the gospel with gratitude and joy. 

That the happiest portion of Cowper's life was that 
on which he had now entered, appears partly from his 
own account of the first eighteen months of the suc- 
ceeding period, and partly from the testimony of an 
endeared friend, in a letter to the writer of this brief 
memoir ; a friend, who, during the six or seven years 
that immediately followed, was seldom removed from 
him four hours in the day. But not to anticipate what 
remains to be offered, the devotional spirit of his late 
skilful physician, and now valuable host, Dr. Cotton, 
was so completely in unison v/ith the feelings of Cow- 
per, that he did not take his departure from St. Alban's 
till the 17th of June, 1765. During the latter part of 
his residence there, and subsequent to the Jjappy 
change just described, he exhibited a proof of the in- 
teresting and scriptural character of those views of 
religion which he had embraced in the composition of 
two hymns. These hymns he himself styled " speci 
mens" of his " first christian thoughts ;" a circum 
stance which will greatly enhance their value in the 
minds of those to whom they have been long endeared 
by their own intrinsick excellence. The subject of the 
first of these hymns is taken from Revelation, xxi. 5. 
" Behold, I make all things new," and begins, " How 
blest thy creature is, O God." The second under tho 
title of " Retirement," begins " Far from the world, O 
Lord, I flee." 



22 SKETCH OF THE 

Early in the morning of the day above-mentioned, 
he set out for Cambridge, on his way to Huntingdon, 
the nearest place to his own residence, at which his 
brother had been able to secure him an asylum. He 
adverts with peculiar emphasis to the sweet commu- 
nion with his divine Benefactor, which though not 
alone, he enjoyed in silence during the whole of this 
journey ; on the Saturday succeeding which, he re 
paired with his brother to his destination at Hunting 
don. 

No sooner had Mr. John Cowper left him, and re 
turned to Cambridge, than, to use his own words, 
*' finding himself surrounded by strangers, in a place 
with which he was utterly unacquainted, his spirits 
began to sink, and he felt like a traveller in the midst 
of an inhospitable desert, without a friend to comfort, 
or a guide to direct him. He walked forth towards the 
close of the day, in this melancholy frame of mind, and 
having wandered a mile from the town, he was enabled 
to trust in Him who carcth for the stranger, and to rest 
assured that wherever He might cast his lot, the God 
of all consolation would still be near him. 

To the question which the foregoing pathetick pas- 
sage will naturally give rise in every feeling mind, 
namely, why was not Mr. Cowper advised, instead of 
hazarding his tender and convalescent spirit among the 
strangers of Huntingdon, to recline it on the bosom of 
his friends in London ? it is incumbent on the writer 
to venture a reply. It is presumed, therefore, that 
no inducement to his return to them, which, with a 
view to their mutual satisfaction, his affectionate rela- 
tives, and most intimate friends could devise, was ei- 
ther omitted on their part, or declined without reluc- 
tance on his. But in the cultivation of the rehgious 
principles which, with the recovery of his reason, he 
had lately imbibed, and which in so distinguished a 
manner it had pleased God to bless, to the re-esta- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 23 

blishment of his peace, he had an interest to provide for 
of a much higher order. This it was that inchned him 
to a life of seclusion : a measure in the adoption of 
which, though in ordinary cases, he is certainly not 
to be quoted as an example : yet considering the ex- 
treme peculiarity of his own, it seerns equally certain 
that he is not to be censured. There can be no doubt 
indeed, from the following passage of his poem on Re- 
tirement, that had his mind been the repository of less 
exquisitely tender sensibilities, he would have returned 
to his duties in the Inner Temple : 

'•' Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
And fills the world of traffick and the shades, 
And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes, 
Or scorn'd where business never intervenes." 

Of the first two months of his abode in Huntingdon, 
nothing is recorded, except that he gradually mixed 
with a few of its inhabitants, and corresponded with 
some of his early friends. But at the end of that time, 
as he was one day coming out of church, after morning 
prayers, at which he appears to have been a constant 
attendant, he was accosted by a young gentleman of 
engaging manners, who exceedingly desired to culti- 
vate his acquaintance. This pleasing youth, known 
afterwards to the publick as the Rev. William Caw- 
thorne Unwin, Rector of Stock, in Essex, to whom the 
author of the Task inscribed his poem of Tirocinium, 
was so intent upon accomplishing the object of his 
wishes, that when he took leave of the interesting 
stranger, after sharing his walk under a row of trees, 
he had obtained his permission to drink tea with him 
that day. 

This was the origin of the introduction of Cowper 
to the family of the Rev. Morlcy Unwin, consisting of 
himself, his wife, the son already named, and a daugh- 



IL- 



24 SKETCH OF THE 

ter : an event, whicl), when viewed in connexion with 
his remaining years, will scarcely yield, in importance, 
to any feature of his life. Concerning these engaging 
persons, whose general habits of life, and especially 
whose piety rendered them the very associated that 
Cowper wanted, he thus expresses himself in a letter, 
written two months after, to one of his earliest and 
warmest friends f " Now I know them, I wonder that 
1 liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am 
apt to think I should find every place disagreeable that 
had not an Unwin belonging to it." 

The house which Mr. Unwin inhabited was a large 
and convenient dwelling in the High-street in which 
he had been in the habit of receiving a few domestick 
pupils to prepare them for the University. At the di- 
vision of the October Term, one of these students be- 
ing called to Cambridge, it was proposed that the soli- 
tary lodging which Cowper occupied should be exchang- 
ed for the possession of the vacant place. On the 11th 
of November, therefore, in the same year, he com- 
menced his residence in this agreeable family. But 
the calamitous death of Mr. Unwin, by a fall from his 
horse, as he was going to his church on a Sunday morn- 
ing, the July twelvemonth following, proved the signal 
of a further removal to Cowper, who, by a series of 
providential incidents, was conducted with the family 
of his deceased friend to the town of Olney, in Buck- 
inghamshire, on the 14th of October 1767. The in- 
strument whom it pleased God principally to employ 
in bringing about this important event, was the Rev. 
John Newton, then curate of that parish, and after- 
wards rector of St. Mary Woolnoth in London : a most 
exemplary divine, indefatigable in the discharge of his 
ministerial duties ; in which, so far as was consistent 
with the province of a layman, it became the happi' 
ness of Cowper to strengthen his hands. 
* Joseph Hill, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 25 

Great was the value which Cowper set on the friend- 
Ehip and intercourse which for some years he had the 
privilege of enjoying with the estimable author of Car- 
diphonia. This appears by the following passage in one 
of his letters to that venerable pastor ; " The honour 
of your preface, prefixed to my poems, will be on my 
side ; for surely to be known as the friend of a much 
favoured minister of God's word, is a more illustrious 
distinction in reality than to have the friendship of 
an}^ poet in the world to boast of" A correspondent 
testimony of the estimation in which our poet was held 
by his friend Mr. Newton is clearly deducible from 
the introductory words of the preceding sentence ; 
and is abundantly furnished in the preface itself. 

A very interesting part of the connexion thus hap- 
pily established between Mr. Cowper and Mr. Newton, 
was afterwards brought to light in the publication of 
the Olney Hymns, which was intended as a monument 
of the endeared and joint labours of these exemplary 
christians. To this collection Mr. Cowper contributed 
sixty-eight compositions. 

From the commencement of his residence at Olney 
till Januar}', 1773, a period of five years and a quarter, 
it does not appear that there was any material inter- 
ruption either of the health or religious comfort of this 
excellent man. His feel'ings, however, must have re- 
ceived a severe shock in February, 1770, when he was 
twice summoned to Cambridge by the illness of his be- 
loved brother, which terminated fatally on the 20th of 
the following month. How far this afflictive event 
might conduce to such a melancholy catastrophe, it is 
impossible to judge ; but certain it is, that at this period 
a renewed attack of hi": former hypochondriacal com- 
plaint took place. J', is remarkable that the prevailing 
distortion of his ?'.rriicted imagination became then not 
only inconsistent witli the dictates of right reason, but 
was entirely at variance with every distinguishing 
characteristick of that religion which had so long prov 
Vol. ni. 3 



26 SKETCH OF THE 

ed the incitement to his useful labours, and the source 
of his mental consolations Indeed, so powerful and 
so singular was the effect produced on his mind by the 
influence of the malady, that while for many subse- 
quent years it admitted of his exhibiting the most mas- 
terly and delightful display of poetical, epistolary, and 
conversational abilit}^, on the greatest variety of sub- 
jects, it constrained him from that period, both in his 
conversation and letters, studiously to abstain from 
every allusion of a religious nature. Yet no one could 
doubt that the hand and heart from which, even under 
so mysterious a dispensation, such exquisite descrip- 
tions of sacred truth and feeling afterwards proceeded, 
must have been long and faithfully devoted to his God 
and Father. The testimonies of his real piety were 
manifested to others, when least apparent to himself 
But where it pleased God to throw a veil over the men- 
tal and spiritual consistency of this excellent and 
afflicted man, it would ill become us rudely to invade 
the divine prerogative by attempting to withdraw it. 

Under the grievous visitation above-mentioned, Mrs. 
Unwin, wJiom he had professed to love as a mother, 
was as a guardian angel to this interesting sufferer. 
Day and night she watched over him. Inestimable 
likewise was the friendship of Mr. Newton : " Next to 
the duties of my ministry," said that venerable pastor, 
in a letter to the author of this memoir, more than 
twenty years afterwards, " it was the business of my 
life to attend him." 

For more than a twelvemonth subsequent to this at- 
tack, Cowper seems to have been totally overwhelmed 
by the vehemence of his disorder. But in March, 1774, 
he was so far enabled to struggle with it, as to seek 
amusement in the taming his three hares, and in the 
construction of boxes for them to dwell in. From me- 
chanical amusements he proceeded to epistolary em- 
ployment, a specimen of which, addressed to his friend 
Mr. Unwin who had been some years settled at Stock, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 27 

in Essex, iu the summer of 1778, shows that he had, 
in a great measure, recovered his admirable faculties. 

In 1779 he accompanied Mrs. Unwin in a post-chaise 
to view the gardens of Gayhurst ; an excursion of 
which he informs her son in a playful letter. 

In the autumn of this year we find him reading the 
Biography of Johnson, and, with the exception of what 
he terms his " unmerciful treatment of Milton," ex- 
pressing himself " well entertained" with it. 

One of his earliest amusements, in 1780, was the com- 
position of the beautiful fable of " The Nightingale 
and the Glow-worm ;" after which he betook himself 
to the drawing of landscapes : an employment of which 
he grew passionately fond, though he had never been 
instructed in the art. This attachment to the pencil 
was particularly seasonable, as in the midst of it he 
lost his friend Mr. Newton, who was called to the 
charge of St. Mary Woolnoth, in London. "With a 
provident care, however, for his future welfare, this 
excellent man obtained his permission to introduce to 
him the Rev. William Bull, of Newport Pagnell, who 
from that time regularly visited him once a fortnight : 
and whom Cowper afterwards described to his friend 
Unwin, as " a man of letters and of genius, master of a 
fine imagination, or rather not master of it ;" who 
could be *' lively without levity, and pensive without 
dejection." As the year advanced, Hume's History, 
and the Biographia Britannica engaged his attention, 
though the amusements of the garden were his chief 
resource, and had banished drawing altogether. These, 
with the frequent exercise of his epistolary talent, and 
the occasional production of a minor piece of poetry, 
in the composition of which the entertainment of him- 
self and his friends was his only aim, led him to the 
important month of December, in this year, when he 
was to sit down with the secret intention of writing 
for the publicii ; an intention, however, which his ex- 
treme humility took care to couple in his mind with 



28 SKETCH OF THE 

this proviso, that a bookseller could he found who 

would run the risk of publishing his productions. 

Between that time and March, 1781, the four first of 
his larger poems were completed ; namely, Table Talk, 
The Progress of Errour, Truth, and Expostulation. 
These, together with the small pieces contained in the 
earliest edition of that volume, were sent to the press 
in the following May : Mr. Johnson, of St. Paul's 
Church-yard, who had been recommended to the poet 
by Mr. Newton, having, as he informed his friend at 
Stock, " heroically set all peradventures at defiance," 
as to the expense of printing, <' and taken the whole 
charge upon himself." 

The operation of the press, however, had scarcely 
commenced, when it was suggested to the author, that 
the season of publication being so far elapsed, it would 
be adviseable to postpone the appearance of his book 
till the ensuing winter. This delay was productive of 
two advantages ; it enabled him to correct the press 
himself, and nearly to double the quantity of the pro- 
iected volume ; to which, by the 24th of June, he had 
added the poem of Hope ; by the 12th of July, that 
of Charity, and by the 19th of October, those of Con- 
versation and Retirement. 

Whilst the poet was occupied in the extension of his 
work, there arrived at the neighbouring village of Clif- 
ton, a lady who was, in due time, to make a most 
agreeable addition to his society, and to whom the pub- 
lick were afterwards indebted for the first suggestion of 
the Sofa, as they were also to Mrs. Unwin for that of 
the Progress of Errour, as a subject for Cowper's muse. 
The writer alludes to Lady Austen, the widow of Sir 
Robert Austen, Baronet, whose first introduction to the 
poet and his friends occurred in the summer of 1781 ; 
a memorable era in the life of Cowper. The limits, 
however, of a contracted narrative, such as this pro- 
fesses to be, will only allow me here to introduce the 
brief character of this accomplished lady, which Cow- 



THE LIFE OF COWPER. 29 

per despatched to his friend Unwin, in the month of 
August of this year ; namely, '^ that she had seen much 
of the world, understood it well, had high spirits, a 
lively fancy, and great readiness of conversation." 
The frequent visits of this pleasing associate to her 
new acquaintance at Olney, gave rise to that familiar 
epistle in rhyme, which the poet addressed to her on 
her return to London ; it is dated December 17, 1781. 
The last month of that year, and the two first of the 
year following, appear to have been employed by 
Cowper in correcting the press, in epistolary corre- 
spondence, and in desultory reading. 

The year 1782 was also an eventful period in the life 
of the poet. In March his first volume issued from 
the press. In the summer Mr. Bull engaged him in the 
translation of Madam Guion ; and by means of a small 
portable printing-press, given him by Lady Austen, 
who had returned from London to Clifton, he became 
a printer as well as a writer of poetry. In October of 
the same year, the pleasant poem of John Gilpin sprang 
up, like a mushroom, in a night. The story on which 
it is founded, having been related to him by Lady 
Austen, in one of their evening parties, it was versi- 
fied in bed, and presented to her the next morning in 
the shape of a ballad. Before the close of the year 
Lady Austen was settled in tJie parsonage at Olney. 

The consequence of this latter arrangement was a 
more frequent intercourse between the lady and her 
friends. Mr. Unwin, indeed, is informed, in a letter 
v>^hich he received from Mr. Cowper in January, 1 783, 
that '• they passed their days alternately at each other's 
chateau."' This eventually led to the publication of 
the Task Lady Austen, as an admirer of Milton, was 
fond of blank verse. She wished to engage Cowper in 
that species of composition. For a long time he de- 
clined it. The lady, however, persevered, till, in June 
or July of the same vear, he promised to write if she 
3* 



30 SKETCH OF THE 

would furnish the subject. *' O !" she replied, "you 
can never be in want of a subject ; you can write upon 
any : — write upon this sofa I" " The poet," says Mr. 
Hayley, " obeyed her command, and from the lively 
repartee of familiar conversation arose a poem of many 
thousand verses, unexampled perhaps both in its origin 
and excellence 1 A poem of such infinite variety, that 
it seems to include every subject, and every style, with- 
out any dissonance or disorder ; and to have flowed 
without effort, from inspired philanthropy, eager to 
impress upon the hearts of all readers whatever may 
lead them most happily to the full enjoyment of hu 
man life, and to the final attainment of heaven." 

The progress of this enchanting performance appears 
to have been this. The first four books, and part of 
the fifth, were written by the 22d of February, 1784 ; 
the final verses of the poem in September following ; 
and in the beginning of October the work was sent to 
the press. The arrangements with the bookseller were 
entrusted to Mr. Unwin. During the period of its 
production, the evenings of the poet appear to have 
been constantly devoted to a course of diversified read- 
ing to the ladies. Such as Hawkesworth's Voyages, 
L'Estrange's Josephus, Johnson's Prefaces, The The- 
ological Miscellany, Beattie's and Blair's Lectures, 
the " Folio of four Pages," and the Circumnavigations 
of Cook. This may in some measure account for the 
comparatively slow execution of the latter part of the 
work, and indeed of the whole, with reference to the 
former volume. But the following passage of a letter 
to Mr. Newton, dated October 30, 1784, will explain 
it more fully. " I mentioned it not sooner," namely, 
that he was engaged in the work, '' because, almost 
to the last, I was doubtful whether I should ever bring 
it to a conclusion, working often in such distress of 
mind, as while it spurred me to the work, at the same 
time threatened to disqualify me for it " After it was 



LIFE OF COWPER. 31 

sent to the press, he added the poem of Tirocinium, 
two hundred Unas of which were written in 1782, and 
the remainder in October and November, 1784. 

On the 21st of this month he began his translation 
of Homer, which, together with the completion of The 
Task, proves the year 1784 to have been an active 
period in the life of Cowper. A no less striking occur- 
rence of that year was the termination of his inter- 
course with Lady Austen. For a just statement of 
that sudden event, which, while it by no means low- 
ered the character of either of the ladies, exceedingly 
elevated that of Cowper, the reader is referred to the 
biography of Hayley. 

The year 1785 was marked by the publication of the 
second volume of his poems in June or July, contain- 
ing The Task, Tirocinium, The Epistle to Joseph Hill, 
Esq. and the diverting History of John Gilpin ; also, 
by the production of many excellent letters, among 
which those to his cousin, lady Hesketh, who had late- 
ly returned from a residence in Italy, and renewed her 
correspondence with him on the appearance of his 
second volume, are peculiarly interesting. With the 
exception of a few of his smaller pieces, his poetical 
employment this year was confined to the translation 
of Homer. 

The same may be said of the succeeding year, which, 
however, was distinguished by three remarkable oc- 
currences : the arrival of lady Hesketh, at Olney, in 
June : Cowper's removal to the Lodge in the adjoining 
village of Weston Underwood, in November ; and the 
death of Mr. Unwin, in the same month. To the first 
of these events he thus alludes in a letter to Mr. Ilill , 
" My dear cousin's arrival here, as it could not fail to 
do, made us happier than we ever w^ere at Olney. Her 
great kindness in giving us her company is a cordial 
that I shall feel the effect of, not only while she is here, 
but while I live ;" to the second, thus, in a letter to 
the same friend, " I find myself here situated exactly 



32 SKETCH OF THE 

to ray mind. Weston is one of the prettiest villages 
in England, and the walks about it, at all seasons of the 
year, delightful. I know that you will rejoice with me 
in the change that we have made, and for which I am 
altogether indebted to lady Hesketh ;" and to the third, 
thus, in concluding a letter to that Ifdy, " So farewell 
my friend Unwin I The first man for whom I conceiv- 
ed a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and 
for whom I cannot but still feel a friendship, though I 
shall see thee with these eyes no more." 

Early in January, 1787, he was attacked with a ner- 
vous fever, which obliged him to discontinue his poeti- 
cal efforts till the October following. A few days after 
the commencement of this indisposition, he received a 
visit from a stranger, which he thus notices in a letter 
to lady Hesketh: " A young gentleman called here 
yesterday, who came six miles out of his way to see 
me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, 
having just left the University there. He came, I sup- 
pose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, 
as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the 
Scotch Professors for my two volumes. His name is 
Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you 
will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can 
at present, therefore I send it." This interesting and 
accomplished character was afterwards of singular use 
to Cov/per, during a friendship which originated in the 
above visit, and which was terminated only by the 
death of the poet. As an early instance of this utility, 
and that with reference to the paramount wants of the 
mind, he introduced his new acquaintance to the poetry 
of Burns, with which he was so much pleased as to read 
it twice. It was succeeded in the ofiice of relieving his 
depressed spirits by the Latin Argenis of Barclay ; The 
Travels of Savary into Egypt ; Memoirs du Barcm de 
Tott ; Fenn's Original Letters ; The Letters of Fre- 
derick of Bohemia ; Memoirs of d'Henri de Lorraine, 
Due de Guise ; and The Letters of his young relative 



LIFE OF COWPER. 33 

Spencer Madan, to Priestley. In allusion to this inter- 
val of cessation from the labours of the pen, he says in 
a letter to Mr. Rose, " When I cannot walk, I read, 
and read perhaps more than is good for me. But I can- 
not be idle. The only mercy that I show myself in 
this respect is, that I read nothing that requires much 
closeness of application." Conversing, however, with 
men and things, through the medium of books, was not 
his only resource in this season of illness. He had an 
infinitely better medicine of this kind, in the society 
of his valuable friends at the Hall, and the many pleas- 
ing acquaintances to which their hospitality introduc- 
ed him. Indeed the kindness of Sir John and lady 
Throckmorton, always a cordial to the spirits of Cow- 
per from the time he knew them, was especially such 
under his present circumstances. As a proof of its 
happy influence on the mind of the poet, he was ena- 
bled in the autumn to resume his translation of Homer, 
which, with the renewal of his admirable letters to 
several friends, and the production of his first mortua- 
ry verses for the clerk of Northampton, comprised all 
his literary performances to the conclusion of the year. 

In 1788 his venerable uncle, Ashley Cowper, Esq. 
the father of lady Hesketh, died at the age of eighty- 
seven ; an event which he pathetically alludes to in 
several of the letters of this period, and the ill effect 
of which on his spirits was happily prevented by the 
successive visits at the lodge of the Rev. Matthew 
Powley and his amiable partner, the daughter of Mrs. 
Unwin ; his old friends the Newtons, Mr. Rose, and 
lady Hesketh. 

The reappearance at the Lodge of the two last men- 
tioned visiters is recorded in his letters of 1789, which 
was also devoted to Homer and the muse. 

In January, 1790, the writer of this sketch, who had 
hitherto enjoyed no personal intercourse with his rela- 
tive, but for whom, ten years after, was reserved tho 
melancholy office of closing his eyes, introduced him- 



34 SKETCH OF THE 

self to the poet as the grandson of his mother's bro- 
ther, the Rev. Roger Donne, late rector of Catfield, 
in Norfolk. His total ignorance of what had befallen 
that branch of his family, during the twenty-seven 
years of his retirement from the world, would of itseh 
have secured his attention to a visiter so circumstanc 
ed, even if his heart had been a stranger to the hospita- 
ble virtues. But as no human bosom was over more 
under the influence of those blessed qualities than 
Cowper's, the reception which his kinsman met with 
was peculiarly pleasing. The consequence was a re- 
petition of his visit in the same year, and indeed the 
passing of the chief of his academical recesses at the 
Lodge, and his clerical leisure afterwards, till, by the 
appointment of Providence, he transplanted this inter- 
esting man with his enfeebled companion into Nor- 
folk, as will appear in the sequel of these pages. 

Perceiving that his new and valuable acquaintance 
dwelt with great pleasure on the memory of his mother, 
the kinsman of Covvper, on his return home, was espe- 
cially careful to despatch to him her picture, as a pre- 
sent from his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. To the arrival of this 
portrait, an original in oils, by Heins, he thus adverts 
in a letter to that lady, dated February 27, 1790 ; " The 
world could not have furnished you with a present so 
acceptable to me as the picture which you have so 
kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and 
viewed it with a trepidation of nerves and spirits some- 
what akin to what I should have felt had the dear origi- 
nal presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and 
hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, 
and of course the first on which I open my eyes in the 
morning." The receipt of this picture gave rise to 
the Monody so justly a favourite with the public, when 
it appeared in the later editions of his poems. 

On the 25th of August, in this year, he completed his 
translation of the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer into 
blank verse, which he had begun on the 21st of Novera- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 35 

ber, 1784. During eight months of this time he was 
hindered by indisposition, so that he was occupied in 
the work, on the whole, five years and one month. On 
the 8th of September the writer of this narrative had 
the gratification to convey it to St. Paul's Church-yard, 
with a view to its consignment to the press ; during its 
continuance in which, the translator gave the work a 
second revisal. The Iliad was dedicated to his young 
noble relative, earl Cowper ; and the Odyssey to the 
illustrious lady of w^hom he thus writes to his kinsman 
of Norfolk, on the 28th of November, 1790 : " We had 
a visit on Monday from one of the first women in the 
world ; in point of character, I mean, and accomplish- 
ments, the dowager lady Spencer. I may receive, 
perhaps, some honours hereafter, should my transla 
tion speed according to my wishes and the pains I 
have taken with it ; but shall never receive any that I 
shall esteem so highly. She is indeed worthy to whom 
I should dedicate ; and may but my Odyssey prove as 
wortliy of her, I shall have nothing to fear from the 
critics." Lady Hesketh also paid him this year her 
usual visit, which extended into the next. 

The year 1791 was marked by the completion of 
the second revisal of his Homer, on the 4th of March ; 
and by the return of the last proof-sheet of that work 
to the publisher on the 12th of June. Also by the 
commencement of his correspondence with the poet 
Hurdis ; the suggestion of the Four Ages, Infancy, 
Youth, Manhood, and Old Age, as a subject for his 
muse, by his very pleasing and well informed clerical 
neighbour, Mr. Buchanan of Ravenstone ; and the sea- 
sonable visit of three of his Norfolk relations, Mrs. 
Balls, Miss Johnson, and her brother,- in the vacant 
period between the conclusion of his employment as 
translator of Homer, and the beginning of a new litera- 
ry engagement, which he thus announces to Mr. Rose, 
on the 14th of September of this year : '• A Milton, 
that is to rival, and, if possible, to exceed in splendour 



36 SKETCH OF THE 

Boydell's Shakspeare, is in contemplation, and I am 
in the editor's office, Fuseli is the painter. My business 
will be to select notes from others, and to write origi- 
nal notes ; to translate the Latin and Italian poems, 
and to give a correct text." He addressed himself to 
the work with diligence, and by the end of the year 
had advanced to the Epitaphium Damonis. 

In the early part of 1792 he had to encounter the loss 
of his agreeable associates at Weston-hall, the death of 
Sir Robert Throckmorton having accasioned their re- 
moval to a seat in Oxfordshire ; an event which he 
tenderly alludes to in concluding a letter to the poet 
Hurdis. His engagement with Milton, the society of 
lady Hesketh, and of his friend Rose, but more espe- 
cially the consideration of who was to succeed his old 
neighbours in the hospitable mansion, namely, the next 
brother of the Baronet,* who was on the eve of mar- 
riage with Catharina, the favourite of the poet, sup- 
ported his spirits at this trying period. 

The next remarkable feature in the history of Cow- 
per, is the commencement of his correspondence with 
Mr. Hayley. The limits of this narative will not ad- 
mit of a detail of the singular circumstances which 
gave rise to it, but it was scarcely entered upon, before, 
in writing to lady Hesketh, Cowper says of his new 
epistolary acquaintance, " I account him the chief ac- 
quisition that my own verse has ever procured me." In 
the following May, a personal interview took place be- 
tween the two poets, thus noticed by Cowper in writ- 
ing to his kinsman of Norfolk : " Mr. Hayley is here 
on a visit. We have formed a friendship that I trust 
will last for life." A few days after, Mrs. Unwin was 
struck with the palsy, which deprived her of the pow- 
er of articulation, and the use of her right hand and 
arm. Under the pressure of this domestick affliction, 
he thus writes to Lady Hesketh ; " It has happened 

* George Couitenay Throcknionon, Esq. now Mr. Courte- 
nay. 



LIFE OF COWrEll. 37 

well, that of all men living, the man most qualified to 
assist and comfort me, is here, though till within these 
few days I never saw him, and a few weeks since had 
no expectation that I ever should. You have already 
guessed that I mean Hayley !" 

Early in June, Mr. Hayley left the Lodge, having 
obtained a promise from its inhabitants, that if it should 
please God to continue the convalescent symptoms of 
Mrs. Unwin, which had begun to be exhibited, they 
would visit Eartham in the course of the summer. 
The new guest of Cowper was succeeded by the wri- 
ter of this sketch, who, without consulting the poet, 
ventured to introduce to him Abbott the Painter, one 
of the most successful artists of that period, in secur- 
ing to a portrait the likeness of its original. In allu- 
sion to the fidelity of the copy he was then producing, 
Cowper playfully says, in a letter to Mr. Hayley, 

Abbott is paiiitiug me so true, 
That (trust me) you would stare, 

And hardly know at the first view, 
If I were here, or there. 

In the beginning of August, the party set out on their 
way to Eartham, where they arrived on the evening 
of the third day, and where the most cordial and af- 
fectionate reception that it was possible for guests to 
meet with, awaited them from the owner of that ele- 
gant villa. This had a happy effect upon the spirits 
of Cowper, which had been in some measure depress- 
ed by the romantick moonlight scenery of the Sussex 
hills, over which he iiad just passed, and whose bold 
and striking outline so far surpassing any images of 
the kind with which the last thirty years had present- 
ed him, aurried back his recollection to those times 
wlien he had scarcely known what trouble was. 

In this delightful retreat he remained till about the 
middle of the following mouth, his kind host doing 

Vol. IIL 4 



38 SKETCH OF THE 

every tiling that even the purest fraternal friendship 
could dictate for the comfort of the poet and his in- 
firm companion ; who were both benefited by his be- 
nevolent exertions, the one considerably in spirits, 
and the other somewhat in health. During the visit 
of Cowper to Eartham, a fine head of him in crayon 
was executed by Ronmey, who joined the party, as 
did also that ingenious novelist and pleasing poetess 
Charlotte Smith, the *' friendly Carwardine," of 
Earl's Colne Priory, and the author of " The Village \ \ 

Curate," soon after the arrival of the guests from ; 

Weston. Their society was also enlivened by the en- j j 

dearing attentions of the amiable and accomplished ij 

youth, for whose future enjoyment, after a life of pro- i j 

fessional labour, the scenery of Eartham had been so j j 

fondly embellished by an affectionate parent, but to \ I 

whom Providence allotted an early grave in the very j j 

same year and month in which the illustrious visiter \\ 

of his beloved father was consigned to the tomb. • j 

The literary engagements of Cowper while he re- ' \ 

sided at Eartham, are thus noticed by his faithful bi- li 

ographer : " The morning hours, that we cculd bestow \ ! 

upon books, were chiefly devoted to a complete re- ; • 

visal and correction of all the translations which my 1 

friend had finished, from the Latin and Italian poetry j 

of Milton : and we generally amused ourselves after 
dinner in forming together a rapid metrical version 
of Andreini's Adamo. But the constant care which 
the delicate health of Mrs. Unwin required, rendered 
it impossible for us to be very assiduous in study." 

The termination of their visit to Mr. Hayley be- 
ing arrived, a journe}' of four days restored the party 
to the lodge at Weston ; but not the poet to a re- 
sumption of his Miltonick employment. In addition 
to the above-mentioned obstacle, the habi. uf study 
had so totally left him, that instead of beginning his 
dissertations on the Paradise Lost, as he had intend- 
ed, he thus writes to this kinsman, who had returned 



LIFE OF COWPER. 39 

into Norfolk : '' I proceed exactly as when you were 
here — a letter now and then before breakfast, and the 
rest of my time all holy-day : if holy-day it may be 
called that is spent chiefly in moping and musing, and 
^forecasting the fashion of uncertain evils' " 

Oil the 4th of March, 1793, he says in a letter to his 
friend, the Reverend Walter Bagot : " While the win- 
ter lasted I was miserable with a fever on my spirits ; 
when the spring began to approach, I was seized with 
an inflammation in my eyes ; and ever since I have been 
able to use them, have been employed in giving more 
last touches to Homer, who is on the point of going 
to the press again." At the request of his worthy book- 
seller, he added explanatory notes to his revision ; in 
allusion to which he writes in May to his friend Rose. 
" I breakfast every morning on seven or eight pages of 
the Greek commentators. For so much am I obliged 
to read in order to select perho-ps three or four short 
notes for the readers of my translation." He says to 
Mr. Hayley, in the same month, " I rise at six every 
morning, and fag till near eleven, when I breakfast. — 
I cannot spare a moment for eating in the early part 
of the morning, having no other time to study." The 
truth is that his grateful affectionate spirit devoted all 
the rest of the day, from breakfast, to the helpless 
state of his afflicted companion ; of whose similar at- 
tentions to his own necessities he had had such abun- 
dant experience. There can be no doubt that an ar- 
rangement of this sort was highly prejudicial to the 
health of Cowper, and that it hastened the approach 
of the last calamitous attack with which this interest- 
ing sufferer was yet to be visited. For the present, 
however, he was supported under it ; writing pleasantly 
thus to Mr. Hayley in October ; " On Tuesday, we 
expect company — Mr. Rose, and Lawrence the painter. 
Yet once more m}* patience is to be exercised, and 
once more I am made to wish that my face had been 



40 SKETCH OF THE 

moveable, to put on and take off at ; learure, so as to 

be portable in a band-box, and sent to the artist." 

In the following month Mr. Hayley paid his second 
visit to Weston, where he found the writer of this nar- 
rative and Mr. Rose. " The latter," says the biogra- 
t)her of Cowper, " came recently from the seat of | 

lord Spencer, in Northamptonshire, and commissioned 
by that accomplished nobleman to invite Cowper and 
his guests to Althorpe, where my friend Gibbon was 
to make a visit of considerable continuance. All the i 

guests of Cowper now recommended it to him very j i 

strongly to venture on this little excursion, to a house j i 

whose master he most cordially respected, and whose j j 

library alone might be regarded as a magnet of very i 

powerful attraction to every elegant scholar. I wish- 
ed," continues Mr. Hajley, " to see Cowper and Gib- Ij 
bon personally acquainted, oecause I perfectly knew j i 
the real benevolence of both ; for widely as they might j | 
differ on one important article, they were both able jl 
and worthy to appreciate and enjoy the extraordinary Ij 
mental powers of each other. But the constitutional || 
shyness of the poet conspires with the present infirm j 
state of Mrs. Unwin to prevent their meeting. He i; 
sent Mr. Rose and me to make his apology for declin- j | 
ing so honourable an invitation." | j 

In a few days from this time the guests of Cowper j j 

left him, and before the end of the year he thus writes 
to his friend of Eartham : " It is a great relief to me 
that my Miltonick labours are suspended. I am now 
busied in transcribing the alterations of Homer, havmg 
finished the whole revisal. I must then write a new 
preface, which done, I shall endeavour immediately to 
descant on ' The Four Ages.' " 

Instead, however, of recording the prosecution of 
this poem, as the work of the beginning of the follow- 
ing year, it becomes the painful duty of the author o' 
this memoir to exhibit the truly excellent and pitiable 



LIFE OF COWPER. 41 

Bubjecl of it as very differently employed, and as com- 
mencing his descent into those depths of affliction from 
which his spirit was only to emerge by departing from 
the earth. Writing to Mr. Rose, in January, 1794, he 
says, '• I have just ability enough to transcribe, which 
is all that I can do at present : God knows that I write 
at this moment under the pressure of sadness not to be 
described." It was a happy circumstance that lady 
Hesketh had arrived at Weston a few weeks previous 
to this calamitous attack, the increasing infirmities of 
Cowper's aged companion, Mrs. Unwin, having reduc- 
ed her to a state of second childhood. Towards the 
end of February, the care of attending to his afflicted 
relative was for a short time engaged in by the writer 
of these pages, who had scarcely returned to his pro- 
fessional duties, when, in consequence of an affection- 
ate summons from Cowper's valuable neighbour, and 
highly respected friend, the Rev. Mr. Greatheed of 
Newport Pagnel, Mr. Hayley repaired to the Lodge. 
During the continuance of his visit, which was extend- 
ed to several weeks, all expedients were resorted to, 
which the most tender ingenuity could devise, to pro- 
mote the object which had given rise to it. But though 
the efforts of this cordial and tried friend to restore the 
poet to any measure of cheerfulness, were altogether 
ineffectual, yet, as a reward for his humanity, it pleas- 
ed God to refresh his benevolent spirit, at this time, 
by the success of a plan for the benefit of Cowper, the 
idea of which had originated with himself. The cir- 
cumstance alluded to is thus related by the biographer 
of the poet : " It was on the 23d of April, 1794, in 
one of those melancholy mornings, when his compas- 
sionate friend lady Hesketh and myself were watching 
together over this dejected sufferer, that a letter from 
Lord Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the in- 
tended grant of such a pension from his majesty to 
'Cowper, as would ensure an honourable competence 
for the residue of his life. This intelligence produced 
4* 



42 SKETCH OF THE 

in the friends of Ihe poet very lively emotions of de-> 
light, yet blended with pain almost as powerful ; for 
it was painful, in no tiifling degree, to reflect, that 
these desirable smiles of good fortune could not im- 
part even a faint glimmering of joy to the dejectea 
invalid. 

'' His friends, however, had the animating hope, that 
a day would arrive when they might see him receive 
with a cheerful and joyous gratitude, this royal recom- 
pense for merit universally acknowledged. They knew 
that when he recovered his suspended faculties, he 
must be particularly pleased, to find himself chiefly 
indebted for his good fortune to the active benevolence 
of that nobleman, w^ho, though not personally ac- 
quainted with Covvper, stood, of all his noble friends, 
tlie highest in his esteem.." " He was unhappily disa- 
bled," continues his biographer, " from feeling the fa- 
vour he received, but an annuity of three hundred a year 
was graciously secured to him, and rendered payable 
to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of Cowper." 

Another extract from Mr. Hayley will advance the 
memoir to the close of the poet's residence in Buck- 
inghamshire. " From the time when I left ray unhappy 
friend at Weston, in the spring of the year 1794, he 
remained there, under the tender vigilance of his affec- 
tionate relation, lady Hesketh, till the latter end of 
July, 1795 ; — a long season of the darkest depression ' 
in which the best medical advice, and the influence of 
time, appeared equally unable to lighten that afflictive 
burthen which pressed incessantly on his spirits." 

A few weeks prior to the last mentioned period the 
task of superintending this interesting sufferer was 
again shared with Lady Hesketh by her former associ- 
ate from Norfolk ; to whom it forcibly occurred, one 
day, as he reflected on tlie inefiicacy of the air and 
scenery of Weston in promoting the return of health 
to his revered relation, that perhaps a summer's resi- - 
donee by the sea-side might restore him to the en- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 43 

joyment of that invaluable blessing. Lady Hesketh, 
to whom he communicated this idea, being of the same 
opinion, arrangements were speedily made for his 
conducting the two venerable invalids from Bncking- 
hamshire into Norfolk, whom, after a residence there 
of a few months, he hoped to reconduct to the Ledge 
,n amended health and spirits. 

It was a singularly happy circumstance that in this 
projected departure from his beloved Weston, neither 
Cowper, nor Mrs. Unwin, nor either of their friends, 
thought of any thing further than a temporary absence. 
For had the measure been suggested under the idea of 
a final separation from that endeared residence, which 
was eventually found to have been the intention of 
Providence, the anguish of Cowper in passing for the 
last time over the threshold of his favourite retire- 
ment, and in taking leave of Lady Hesketh for ever, 
might not only have proved fatal to the delicate health 
of his affectionate relative, but have so extended itself 
to the breast of his conductor, as to have deprived him 
of the necessary fortitude for sustaining so long a jour- 
ney with so helpless a charge. Nothing of the kind, 
however, having entered into the calculation of either 
party, both the setting out for Norfolk, on Tuesday 
the 28th of July, J 795, and the subsequent travelling 
thither of three days, were unattended with any pecu- 
liarly distressing circumstances. 

As it was highly important to guard against the ef- 
fect of noise and tumult on the shattered nerves of the 
desponding traveller, care was taken that a relay of 
horses should be ready on the skirts of the towns of 
Bedford and Cambridge, by which means he passed 
through those places without stopping. On the even- 
ing of the first day, the quiet village of St. Neots, near 
Eaton, afforded as convenient a resting-place for the 
party as could have been desired ; and the peaceful 
moonlight scenery of the spot, as CoAvper walked with 
his kinsman up and dowJi the church-yard, had so 



44 SKETCPI OF THE 

favourable an effect on his spirits, that he conversed 
with him, with much composure, on the subject of 
Thomson's Seasons, and the circumstances under 
which they were probabl}'^ written. 

This gleam of cheerfulness with which it pleased God 
to visit the afflicted poet, at the commencement of his 
journey, though nothing that may at all compared 
with it was ever again exhibited in his conversation, is 
yet a subject of grateful remembrance to the writer of 
this sketch ; for though it vanished, from the breast of 
Cowper, like the dew of the morning, it preserved the 
sunshine of hope in his own mind, as to tlie final reco- 
very of his revered relative ; and that cheering hope 
never forsook him till the object of his incessant care 
was sinking into the valley of the shadow of death. 

At the close of the second day's journey, the poet 
and his aged companion found in the solitary situation 
of Barton Mills a convenient place to rest at j and the 
third day brought them to North Tuddenham, in Nor 
folk. Here, by the kindness of the reverend Leonard 
Shelford, they were comfortably accommodated with 
an untenanted Parsonage House in whicli they were 
received by Miss Johnson and Miss Perowne ; the re- 
sidence of their conductor, in the market-place of East 
Dereham, being thought unfavourable to the tender 
spirits of Cowper. Of the latter of these ladies, Mr. 
Hayley says, with equal truth and felicity of expres- 
sion, " Miss Perowne is one of those excellent beings 
whom nature seems to have formed expressly for the 
purpose of alleviating the sufferings of the afflicted ; 
tenderly vigilant in providing for the wants of sickness, 
and resolutely firm in administering such relief as the 
most intelligent compassion can supply. Cov/per 
speedily observed and felt the invaluable virtues of his 
new attendant ; and during the last years of his life he 
honoured her so far as to prefer her personal assistance 
to that of every individual around him." 

As the season of the year was particularly favour- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 45 

able for walking, the poet was prevailed on, by his 
kinsman, to make frequent excursions of this sort in 
the retired vicinity of Tuddenham Parsonage ; one of 
which he extended to the house of his cousin, Mrs. 
Bodham, at Mattis-hall. The sight of his own por- 
trait, painted by Abbott, in one of the apartments of 
that residence, awakening in his mind a recollection 
of the comparatively happy moments in which he sat 
for the picture, extorted from him a passionately ex- 
pressed wish, that similar sensations might yet return. 
It being fondly hoped by his kinsman, that not only 
this wish, but many more of the same kind, and those 
most sanguine, conceived by himself, might be realized 
by a removal to the sea-side, he conducted the two in- 
j valids on the 19th of August, 1795, to the village of 

Mundsley, on the Norfolk coast. They had been tiiere 
j but a short time, when his companion perceived that 

there was something inexpressibly soothing to the spirit 
of Cowper in the monotonous sound of the breakers. 
This induced him to confine the walks of the poet, 
whom dejection precluded from the exercise of all 
' choice whatever, or at least the expression of it, almost 

wholly to the sands, which at Mundsley are remarkably 
! firm and level ; till an incident occurred which intfo- 

I duced them to the inland, but still pleasing walks of 

! that vicinity. The circumstance alluded to is stated in 

i the following letter, which, after a long suspension of 

epistolary employment, the poet addressed to Mr 
Buchanan. " It shows," as Mr. Hayley observes, " the 
I severity of his depression, but shows also that faint 

I gleams of pleasure could occasionally break through 

j the settled darkness of melancholy." 

i It is introduced with a quotation from the Lycidas 

* of Milton. 

" To interpose a little ease, 
Let my frail thoug-hts dall}^ with false surmise." 
" I will forget, for a moment, that to whomsoever I 
may address myself, a letter from me can no otherwise 



46 SKETCH OF THE 

be welcome, than as a curiosity. To you, Sir, I ad 
dress this ; urged to it by extreme penury of employ- 
ment, and the desire I feel to learn something of what 
is doing, and has been done at Weston (my beloved 
Weston !) since I left it. 

'' The coldness of these blasts, even in the hottest 
days, has been such, that, added to the irritation of the 
salt spray, with which they are always charged, they 
have occasioned me an inflammation in the eyelids, 
v.'hich threatened a few days since to confine me entire- 
ly ; but by absenting myself as much as possible from 
the beach, and guarding my face with an umbrella, that 
inconvenience is in some degree abated. My cham- 
ber commands a very near view of the ocean, and the 
ships at high water approach the coast so closely, that 
a man furnished with better eyes than mine might, I 
doubt not, discern the sailors from the window. No 
situation, at least when the weather is clear and bright, 
can be pleasanter ; which you will easily credit, when 
I add that it imparts something a little resembling plea- 
sure even to me. — Gratify me with news from Weston ! 
If Mr. Gregson, and your neighbours the Courtenays, 
are there, mention me to them in such terms as you 
see good. Tell me if my poor birds are living : I 
never see the herbs I used to give them without a re- 
collection of them, and sometimes am ready to gather 
them, forgetting that I am not at home. Pardon this 
intrusion. 

'* Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 
" Mundsleij, Sept. 5, 1795". 

The hopes of the kinsman of Cowper were greatly 
elevated by the unexpected despatch of the above epis- 
tle, which he hailed as the forerunner of many more, 
each contributing something to thealleviation of his me- 
lancholy. With the exception, however, of two, here- 
after mentioned, it was the only letter which the over- 
whelming influence of his disorder would suffer him to 
write in his latter years. 



LIFE OF COWPER. i? 

Tlie eflect of air and exercise on the dejocted poet 
being by no means such as his friends had hoped, 
change of scene was resorted to as the next expedient. 
j About six miles to tlie south of Mundsley, and also on 

I the coast, is a village called Happisburgh, or Hasboro', 

1 which, in the days of his youth, Cowper had \'isit,ed 

I from Catfield, the residence of his mother's brother. 

An excursion tiicrefore to this place was projected, and 
happily accomplished by sea ; a mode of conveyance 
which had at least novelty to recommend it ; but a gale 
of wind having sprung up, soon after his arrival there, 
the return by water was unexpectedly precluded, and 
he was under the necessity of effecting it on foot 
tlirough the neighbouring villages. To the agreeable 
surprise of his conductor, this very considerable walk 
wa.s performed with scarcely any fatigue to the invalid 
Tills incident led to a welcome discovery : namely, 
that, shattered as the person of Cowper was, and re- 
duced even to a consumptive thinness, it yet retained 
a considerable portion of muscular strength. This in- 
duced an extension of those daily walks in which the 
vicinit}' of Mundsley was gradually explored. It led 
likewise to a journey of fifty miles in a post-chaise, by 
way of Cromer, Holt, and Fakenham, the object of 
wliich was to take a view of Dunham Lodge, a vacant 
seat on a high ground, in the neighbourhood of Swaff- 
ham. Cowper observed of this mansion, wliich was re- 
cently built by Edward Parry, Esq. that it was rather 
too spacious for his requirements ; but as he did not 
seem unwilling to inhabit it, his companion, who con- 
ceived it to be a far more eligible situation for his in- 
teresting charge than his own house in the town of 
Dereham, was induced to become the tenant of it at a 
subsequent period. They proceeded to the last men- 
tioned place, which is about eight miles east of Dun- 
ham Lodge, the same evening ; and the next day, a 
journey of thirty miles through Fteepham, Aylsham, 
and North Walsham, returned them safe to Mundsley 



48 SKETCH OF THE 

Here they remained till the 7th of October, the healtn, 
if not the spirits of Cowper, being benefited by it, 
though the infirmities of Mrs. Unwin continued the 
same. On that day, the party removed to Dereham, 
and again, in the course of tlie month, to Dunham 
Lodge, which was now become their settled residence. 

As the season advanced, the amusement of walking 
being rendered impracticable, and his spirits being by 
no means sufficiently recovered to admit of his resum- 
ing either his pen or his books, the only resource which 
was left to the poet, was to listen incessantly to the 
reading of his companion. The kind of books that 
appeared most, and indeed solely to attract him, were 
works of fiction ; and so happy was the influence of 
these in riveting his attention, and abstracting him, of 
course, from the contemplation of his miseries, that he 
discovered a peculiar satisfaction when a production 
of fancy of more than ordinary length was introduced 
by his kinsman. This was no sooner perceived, than 
he was furnished with the voluminous pages of Ri- 
chardson, to which he listened with the greater inter- 
est, as he had bi^en personally acquainted with that in- 
genious writer. 

At this time the tender spirit of Cowper clung ex- 
ceedingly to those about him, and seemed to be haunt- 
ed with a continual dread that they would leave him 
alone in his solitary maaision. Sunday, therefore, was 
a day of more than ordinary apprehension to him ; as 
the furthest of his kinsman's churches being fifteen 
miles from the Lodge, he was necessarily absent during 
the whole of the sabbath. On these occasions, it was 
the constant practice of the dejected poet to listen fre- 
quently on the steps of the hall-door for the barking of 
dogs at a farm-house, which, in the stillness of the 
night, though at nearly the distance of two miles, in- 
variably announced the approach of his companion. 

To remove the inconvenience of these lengthened 
absences, an inquiry was set on foot by the attendant 



LIFE OF COWPER. 49 

of Cowper for a house equally retired with Dunham 
Lodge, but nearer the scene of his ministerial duties 
The search, however, proving fruitless, he ventured to 
consult his beloved charge, as to how far he could to- 
lerate the Dereham residence. To his agreeable sur- 
prise, he found that he not only preferred it to his 
present situation, but, if the question had been put to 
him in the first instance, would never have wished any 
other. It was agreed, therefore, that as the ensuing 
summer was to be spent at Mundsley, they should re- 
main at Dunham Lodge till that period, and return 
from the sea to Dereham. 
I In the mean time, the employment of reading, and, 

j as often as the weather permitted, excursions on foot, 

I or in an open carriage, amused the sufferer till the 

i commencement of 1796 j in the month of April of 

! which year Mrs. Unwin received a visit from her 

daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Pov/ley. The 
tender, and even filial attention which the compassion- j 

ate invalid had never ceased to exercise towards his | 

j aged and infirm companion, was now shared by her 

I affectionate relatives : to whom it could not but be a 

j gratifying spectacle to see their venerable parent so 

j assiduously watched over by Cowper, even in his dark- 

' est periods of depression. The visit of these exem- 

plary persons was productive also of advantage to 
their friends, as the salutary custom of reading a chap- 
ter in the Bible to her mother, every morning before 
she rose, was continued by the writer of this memoir, 
who, as the poet always visited the chamber of his poor 
old friend, the moment he had finished his breaJifast, 
took care to read the chapter at that time. 

It was a pleasing discovery, which the companion of 
Cowper had now made, that immersed as he was in the 
depth of despondence, all the billows of which liad 
gone over his soul, he could yet listen with composuie 
to the voice of inspiration, of which he had been con- 
ceived to be unwilling to hear even the name. Being 
Vol. III. 5 



i; 



50 SKETCH OF THE 

encouraged by the result of the above experiment, the 
conductor of the devotions of this retired family ven- 
tured, in the course of a few days, to let the members 
of it meet for prayers in the room where Cowper was, 
instead of assembling in another apartment, as they 
hitherto had done, under the influence, as it proved, of 
a misconception, with regard to his ability to attend 
the service. On the first occurrence of this new ar- 
rangement, of which no intimation had been previously 
given him, he was preparing to leave the room, but 
was prevailed on to resume his seat, by a word of sooth- 
ing and whispered entreaty. 

The arrival of Wakefield's edition of Pope's Homer, 
at Dunham Lodge, in June, 1796, was productive of ! 

happy consequences to the invalid, by supplying an ! 

occupation to his harassed mind, which absorbed it ■ 

still more than that of listening to the works before • j 

mentioned. These fabrications of fancy, however, , j 

were not laid aside, but varied with conceptions of a j | 

much higher order ; even the sublime flights of the il- { j 

lustrious Greek, to which the attention of his transla- | ; 

tor was again awakened, in the following rather singu- j j 

lar manner. I i 

It was the custom of the poet, on leaving Mrs. Un- 
win's apartment in the morning, to take a few turns 
by himself in a large unfrequented room, which he 
.^ad to pass in his way back to the parlour. His com- 
panion, therefore, having observed that the notes of 
the ingenious Mr. Wakefield were not without a re- 
ference to the labours of Cowper, took care to place 
the eleven volumes of that editor's recent publication 
in a conspicuous part of this room } having previously 
hinted, in the hearing of his friend, that there was in 
t,hem an occasional comparison of Pope with Cowper. 
To his agreeable surprise, he discovered, the next day, 
that the latter had not only found these notes, but had 
corrected his translation at the suggestion of some of 
them. From the moment that this reviving interest in 



LIFE OF COWPER. 51 

his version of the Iliad and Odyssey was perceived to 
exist in the breast of Cowper, it was vigilantly che 
rished by the utmost efforts of his attendant, till, in the 
ensuing August, he had decidedly engaged in a revisal 
of the whole work, and was daily producing almost 
sixty new lines. 

Much hope had been entertained by the friends of 
Cowper, that this voluntary resumption of poetical 
employment would have led to his speedy and perfect 
recovery : but the removal of the family in Septem- 
ber from Dunham Lodge, which they now finally quit 
ted, to their temporary residence at Mundsley, se 
completely dissipated his habits of attention, that a 
twelvemonth elapsed before he could be again prevail- 
ed on to return to his revision. In the mean time the 
air and walks of that favourite village, both marine 
and inland, were fully tried, till towards the end of 
October, v/hen no apparent benefit having been deriv- 
ed to the dejected poet, by his visit to the coast, the 
invalids and their attendants retired to Dereham. 

Cowper was scarcely settled in this new habitation, 
(in point of seclusion, the reverse of Dunham Lodge,) 
when his friends had the satisfaction to see that the 
scenery of a town was by no means distressing to his 
tender spirit. Now, to employ the language of his 
Sussex friend, " the long and exemplary life of Mrs. 
Unwin was drawing towards a close. The powers of 
nature were gradually exhausted, and on the 17th of 
December she ended a troubled existence, distinguish- 
ed by a sublime spirit of piety and friendship, which 
shone through long periods of calamity, and continued 
to glimmer through the distressful twilight of her de- 
clining faculties. The precise moment of her de- 
parture was so tranquil, that it was only marked by 
the cessation of her breath, as the clock was striking 
one in the afternoon." 

Gentle, however, as were the approaches of the last 
messentrer, in the case of this eminent servant of God, 



52" SKETCH OF THE 

and little as, tinder the ceaseless pressure of* his own 
sufferings he had hitherto appeared to notice them, 
they had yet been perceived by Cowper ; for, as a 
faithful servant of his dying friend and himself were 
opening the window of his chamber on the morning of 
the day of her decease, he said to her, in a tone of 
voice at once plaintive, and full of anxiety as to what 
might be the situation of his aged companion, " Sally, 
is there life above-stairs ?" 

From a dread of the effect of such a scene upon his 
mind, the first object of the kinsman of Cowper, who 
had attended him to the bedside of his departing friend, 
about half an hour before her death, was to reconduct 
his pitiable charge to the apartment below, and in- 
stantly to commence reading. This expedient, so of 
ten resorted to, with a view to composing the spirit of 
Cowper, and generally speaking, with much success, 
was happily efficacious in the present instance. For 
though the reader had scarcely advanced a few pages 
oefore he was beckoned out of the room to be informed 
of the death of Mrs. Unwin, he returned to it some 
moments after, without being questioned as to why he 
had left it. Apprehending from this circumstance, 
and from a rapid observation of his countenance with 
every turn of which he had long been familiar, that 
the mind of his beloved relative was perhaps in as fit a 
state for the reception of the melancholy tidings, as, 
under the pressure of his calamity, it could be, the 
writer of this memoir resolved to reveal them. As he 
was sitting down therefore to the book, and turning 
over the leaves to resume his reading, he observed to 
the poet, with as much cheerfulness and tender con- 
cern as he was able to associate in the same tone of 
voice, that his poor old friend had breathed her last. 

This intelligence was received by Cowper, though 
not entirely without emotion, yet with such as was 
compatible with his being read to by his kinsman, who 
had soon the satisfaction of seeing his interesting pa* 



LIFE OF COWPER. 53 

lient as composed as in the time of Mrs. Unwin's life. 

But the favourable issue of two distressing periods 
was still to be provided for ; his viewing the corpse, 
and its subsequent removal for interment. To meet 
the first of these difficulties, it was judged expedient, 
that the kinsman of Cowpcr should attend him to the 
chamber of his departed friend, in the dusk of the 
evening, when only an indistinct view of the body 
could be obtained ; and to preclude his suspicion of 
the other, the funeral was appointed to take place by 
torch-light. It appeared, however, that there was no 
necessity for the latter precaution, as, after looking at 
the corpse for a few moments, under the circumstances 
above mentioned, and starting suddenly away, with a 
vehement but unfinished sentence of passionate sorrow, 
he not only named it no more, but never even spoke 
of Mrs. Unwin. 

The funeral was attended by Mr. and Mrs. Powlej, 
who had been summoned from Yorkshire within the 
few last days of their parent's life, but had not arrived 
till she had ceased to breathe : also by the writer of 
this sketch, and some members of his family. She 
svas buried on the twenty-third of December, in the 
north aisle of the church of East Dereham. 

The commencement of the year 1707 in no respect 
differed from that of the preceding years of his illness, 
his extreme dejection still continuing, and the only al- 
leviation it was capable of receiving being still the 
listening to works of fiction. As the spring advanced, 
however, he was persuaded to resume his usual walks, 
a measure to which the situation of the house at East 
Dereham happily presented no obstacles, as though it 
fronted the market-place, which was also the turnpike 
road, it was contiguous to the fields on its opposite 
side. This was equally convenient for his airings in 
an open carriage, which, from the happy eflect of a 
course of ass's milk upon his bodily health, begun on 
tlie twenty-first of June in this year, he W"as enabled to 



54 JSKKTCH OF THE 

bear, for a few weeks, before breakfast. This was, 
undoubtedly, the period of his last deplorable afflic- 
tion, when the person of Cowper made the nearest ap- 
proaches to the appearance it had exhibited before his 
illness. His countenance, from having been extreme- 
ly thin, and of a yellowish hue, had recovered much 
of its former fulness and ruddy complexion ; his limbs 
were also less emaciated, and his posture more erect : 
but the oppression on his spirits remained the same. 
Under these circumstances, it was thought advisable 
to omit the visit to Mundsley this year, and to take 
the utmost advantage of the rides about Dereham. 

With such recreations, and the never-failing one of 
reading, the summer of 1797 was brought to a close ; 
when, dreading the effect of the cessation of bodily 
exercise upon the mind of Cowper during a long win- 
ter, his kinsman resolved, if it were possible, to rein- 
state him in the revisal of his Homer. One morning, 
therefore, after breakfast, in the month of September, 
he placed the commentators on the table, one by one ; 
namely, Villoisson, Barnes, and Clarke, opening them 
all, together with the poet's translation, at the place 
where he had left off a twelvemonth before, but talk- 
ing with him, as he paced the room, upon a very dif- 
ferent subject, namely, the impossibility of the 
things befalling him which his imagination had repre- 
sented ; when, as his companion liad wished, he said 
to him, " And are you sure that I shall be here till the 
book you are reading is finished .•"' " Quite sure," 
replied his kinsman, " and that you will be here to 
complete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to the 
books, " if you will resume it to-day." As he re- 
peated these words he left the room, rejoicing in the 
well-known token of their having sunk into the poet's 
mind, namely, his seating himself on the sofa, taking 
up one of the books, and saying in a low and plaintive 
voice, *' I may as well do this, for I can do nothing else." 

It was a subject of much gratitude to the friends of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 55 

this amiable and most interesting sufferer, that a mer- 
ciful Providence should again appoint him the employ- 
ment alluded to, as, more than any thing else, it di- 
verted his mind from a contemplation of its miseries, 
and seemed to extend his breathing, which was at 
other times short, to a depth of respiration more com- 
patible with ease. They had the happiness to see him 
perfectly settled to the work, and persevering in it, 
feeble and dejected as he was, till he brought it to a 
prosperous close. 

In the meantime, the visit to the coast was repeat- 
ed ; not indeed, as in former cases, for a continuance 
there of some months, but with an intention of renew- 
ing it several times in the same season. The series 
of excursions to the marine village of Mundsley com- 
menced in the summer of 1798, and was varied by a 
return to Dereham eight or ten times, after a resi- 
dence of a week by the sea-side. On one of these oc- 
casions he visited the larger of the two Lighthouses at 
Happisburgh ; the extensive prospect from which em- 
bracing a country formerly not unknown to him, hia 
companion conceived might be a subject of interesting 
contemplation. Such in some measure it proved, but 
the attention of Cowper seemed more attracted by 
the apparatus of the building, lamps and reflectors 
having been recently substituted for a fire of coals, in 
describing the passage of that intricate coast. It was 
hoped that this change of place, accompanied also by 
a diversity of objects, might operate happily on ti)e 
mmd of Cowper ; and to a certain extent, it did, by 
producing- at times, a mitigation of his melancholy 
In this, however, there is no doubt that Homer had a 
considerable share, as he was the constant companion 
of the poet on the coast. The Miscellaneous Works 
of Gibbon also, and the Pursuits of Literature, whicli 
he permitted his kinsman to read to him, contributed 
to the amusement of this period. 

Two occurrences worthy of record, as testifying tlie 



56 SKETCH OF THE 

regard borne to Cowper by his former acquaintance 
took place this year : namely, the visit in July, of the 
dowager lady Spencer, for whom he had always enter 
tained the most affectionate respect, and that of hia 
highly esteemed friend, Sir John Throckmorton, in 
December. But though the former had come many 
miles out of her way to see him, and the latter had 
taken a journey from Lord Petre's expressly for that 
purpose, the pressure of his malady would scarcely 
allow him to speak to either of these friends, or to ex- 
press a sense of their kind solicitude. 

On a Friday evening, the eighth of March, 1799, he 
completed the revisal of his Homer, and the next 
morning entered upon the new preface, which, how- 
ever, he concluded on the following day, so that his 
kinsman beheld him once more without employment. 

But the powers of his astonishing mind were yet to 
be exercised, and that on a subject altogether of his 
own devising. For though on the eleventh of March, 
his attendant laid before him the introductory frag- 
ment of his formerly projected poem of The Four Jigcs^ 
he merely corrected a few lines, adding two or three 
more, and declining to proceed, with this remark, 
" that it was too great a work for him to attempt in 
his present situation. " 

In the same manner, several literary projects, 
though of easier accomplishment, which his compa- 
nions suggested to him at supper, were objected to by 
the poet, who at length replied that he had just thought 
of six Latin verses, and if he could compose any thing, 
it must be in pursuing that composition. 

His desk being opened the next morning, and all 
things duly arranged for the purpose, his kinsman had 
the satisfaction, on his return to the room, to see a 
poem, entitled Monies Glaciales, commenced, and that 
some verses were added to the six before mentioned. 
On his attentively considering the title, it occurred to 
his companion that;, during the residence of the poet 



LIFE OF COWPER. 57 

j at Dunham Lodge, the circumstance which he had be- 

i gun to versify, had been read to him in one of the Nor- 

j I 'vvich papers, though without its appearing to engage 

1 1 his notice. At the request of Miss Perowne, he trans- 

lated this poem into English verse on the 19th of the 
same month. 

If the friends of Cowper were not a little surprised, 
that his memory should have furnished him with a 
subject for his poetical talent, under circumstances so 
unlikely to favour its exertion, his producing The Cast- 
away the next day, which was founded on an incident 
recorded in Anson's Voyage, a book which he had not 
looked into for almost twenty years, astonished them 
still more. It was, however, the last original poem 
produced by the pen of Cowper. In August he trans- 
lated it into Latin verse. 

On the same day that he began and finished The 
Cast-atcay, the Latin poems of his favourite Vincent 
Bourne, which he had appeared not unwilling to enter 
upon next, were laid before him, and he translated 
*' The Thracian.'" But as his subsequent productions, 
with their respective dates, are duly specified in the 
following pages, after observing that the poet went in 
October with himself and Miss Perowne to survey a 
much more commodious house in East Dereham, than 
the family had hitherto occupied there, and to which 
they removed in December, the writer of this memior 
will draw it to a close. 

Cowper had not passed many weeks in this new habi- 
tation, when the symptoms of weakness, which he had 
for some time exhibited, assumed a dropsical appear- 
ance in the ancles and feet. Tj arrest the progress 
of this new malady, a physician was called in, on the 
31st of January, 1800, by the aid of whose prescrip- 
tions, which he was with difficulty persuaded to follow, 
and the daily exercise or a post-chaise, the disorder 
was so far checked as not to occasion any furtJier 
alarm. 



58 SKETCH OF THE 

Towards the end of January his attention had been 
recalled to Homer, by a request from his friend of Sus- 
sex, who wished him to new-model a passage in his 
Translation of the Illiad, where mention is made of 
the very ancient sculpture in which Dcedalus had re- 
presented the Cretan dance for Ariadne. " On the 
31st of January," says Mr. Hayley, " I received from 
him his improved version of the lines in question, writ- 
ten in a firm and delicate hand. The sight of such writ- 
ing from my long-silent friend inspired me with a lively, 
but too sanguine hope, that I might see him once more 
restored. Alas! the verses which I surveyed as a de- 
lightful omen of future letters from a correspondent so 
inexpressibly dear to me, proved the last effort of his 
pen." 

By the 22d of February his weakness had increased 
to such a degree as to be incompatible with the motion 
of a carriage, which was therefore discontinued from 
that day. 

He had now ceased to come down stairs, though he 
was still able, after breakfasting in bed, to adjourn to 
a second room above, and to remain there till the even- 
ing. 

Before the end of March he was obliged to forego 
even the trifling exercise connected with this change 
of apartments, and to confine himself altogether to his 
bed-room ; in which, however, he sat up to every meal 
except breakfast. 

About this time he was visited by his friend Mr. 
Rose, whose arrival at the Lodge at Weston he had so 
often welcomed with the sincerest delight, but whose 
approach he now witnessed with scarcely any perceiv- 
able pleasure. His departure, however, on the 6th of 
April, excited evident feelings of regret in Cowper. 

The humane example exhibited by Mr. Rose, in 
this affectionate visit to the house of a departing friend^ 
would have been speedily followed by Mr. Hayley and 
Lady Hesketh, had not the former been prevented by 



LIFE OF COWPER. 59 

the impending death of a darling child, and the latter 
by a state of health too infirm to warrant so long a 
journey, and into which she had fallen soon after the 
departure of Cowper from Weston, in consequence of 
her pi-otracted and painful confinement with her re- 
vered relative during the early stage of his calamitous 
depression. 

On the 19th of April the weakness of this truly piti- 
able sufferer had so much increased, that his kinsman 
apprehended his death to be near. Adverting, there- 
fore, to the afSiction, as well of body as of mind, which 
his beloved inmate was then enduring, he ventured to 
speak of his approaching dissolution as the signal of 
his deliverance from both these miseries. After a pause 
of a few moments, which was less interrupted by the 
I i objections of his desponding relative than he had dared 

to hope, he proceeded to an observation more consola- 
tory still ; namely, that in the %vorld to which he was 
hastening, a merciful Redeemer had prepared unspeak- 
able happiness for all his children — and therefore for 
him. To the first part of this sentence he had listened 
with composure, but the concluding words were no 
Booner uttered than his passionately expressed entrea- 
ties, that his companion would desist from any further 
! : observations of a similar kind, clearly proved, that 

! j though it was on the eve of being invested with an- 

1 ! gelick light, the darkness of delusion still veiled his 

i spirit. 

I j The clerical duties of his attendant occasioned his 

absence during the greater part of Sunday the 20th , 
but he learned on his return that he had in some mea- 
sure revived. He was, however, in bed, and asleep ; 
which induced his kinsman to remain in the room, and 
watch by him. Whilst engaged in this melancholy 
office, and endeavouring to reconcile his mind to the 
loss of so dear a friend, by considering the gain which 
that friend would experience, his reflections were sud- 
denly interrupted by the unusual and singularly varied 



60 SKETCH OF THE 

tone of his broathing, which had a striking resemblance 
to the confused notes of an organ. Inexperienced as 
he then was in the diversified approaches of the last 
messenger, he conceived it to be the sound of his im- 
mediate summons, and after listening to it several 
minutes, he arose from the foot of the bed, on which 
he was sitting, to take a nearer, and a last view of his 
departing relative, commending his soul, in silence, to 
that gracious Saviour, whom, in the fulness of mental 
health, he had delighted to honour. As he put aside 
the curtain he opened his eyes } but closed them with- 
out speaking, and breathed as usual. 

In the early part of Mondaj'^ the 21st, and indeed till 
towards the hour of dinner, he appeared to be dying, 
but he so far recovered as to be able to partake slightly 
of that meal. 

The near approach of his dissolution became more 
and more observable in every succeeding hour of Tues- 
day and Wednesday. 

On Thursday the weakness was not at all diminish- 
ed ; but he sat up as usual for a short time in the even- 
ing. 

In the course of the night, when he appeared to be 
exceedingly exhausted, some refreshment was present- 
ed to him by Miss Perowne. From a persuasion, how- 
ever, that nothing could ameliorate his feelings, though 
without any apparent impression that the hand of death 
was already upon him, he rejected tlie cordial with 
these words, the very last that he was heard to utter, I J 

'' What can it signify .'"' 

At five in the morning of Friday the 26th, a deadly 
change in his features was observed to take place. He 
remained in an insensible state from that time till about 
five minutes before five in the afternoon, when he ceas- 
ed to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a manner 
did his spirit take its flight, that though the writer of 
this memoir, his medical attendant, Mr. Woods, and 
three other persons, were standing at the foot and side 



LIFE OF COWPER. 61 

of the bed, with their eyes fixed upon his dying coun- 
tenance, the precise moment of his departure was unob- 
served by any. 

From this mournful period, till the features of his 
deceased friend were closed from his view, the expres- 
sion which the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, 
and which he was affectionately delighted to suppose an 
index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of his soul 
in its gradual escape from the depths of despondence, 
was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it 
were, with holy surprise. 

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church 
of East Dereham, on Saturday the 2d of May. Over 
his grave a monument is erected, bearing the follow- 
ing inscription, from the pen of Mr. Hay ley. 

In Memory 
Of William Cowper, Esq. 
Born in Herefordshire, 1731. 
Buried in this church, 
1800. 

Ye who with warmth the pubhck triumph feel 
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal, 
Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
Pay your fond tribute due to Covvper's dust! 
England, exulting- in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name; 
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise : 
His highest honours to the heart belong ; 
His virtues form'd the magick of his song. 
Vol. III. 6 



POEMS. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, 

ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE, 

IN 1748. 

Fortune ! T thank thee ; gentle Goddess ! thanks ! 
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, 
She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast 
A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes. 
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
Nor noontide feast, nor ev'ning's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this — presumptuous, tho', perhaps, 
The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon. 
Whatever ; not as erst the fabled cock, 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
Spurn "d the rich gem thou gav'st him. Wherefore, ah ! 
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure !) 
Conferr'd'st thou. Goddess ! Thou art blind, thou 

say'st ; 
Enough ! -thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, 
Hints worthy sage philosophy are found j 
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song I 
This pond'rous heel of perforated hide 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 



STANZAS. 63 

Upbore : on this supported oft, he stretch'd, 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time, 
(What will not cruel time,) on a wry step, 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
He, who could erset, with even, equal pace 
Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry. 
And some proportion form'd now, on one side, 
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
W^ith toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on ; 
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads. 
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
His prosp'rous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true ; 
But that support soon failing, by him left, 
On whom he most depended, basely left. 
Betray 'd, deserted ; from his airy height. 
Head-long he falls ; and through the rest of life, 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 



STANZAS 



SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE FIRST 

PUBLICATION OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, 

IN 1753. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

Th' oppress'd ; — unseen and unimplor'd, 

To cheer the face of wo ; 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend. 

And a forgiven foe ; 



G4 EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 
These, these distinguish from the crowd, 
And these along, the great and good, 

The guardians of mankind ; 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
O, with what matchless speed, they leave 

The multitude behind ! 

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth, 

Deriv'd from Heav'n alone, 
Full on that favour'd breast they shine, 
Where faith and resignation join 

To call the blessing down. 

Such is that heart : — but while the Muse 
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, 

Her feeble spirits faint : 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong, 
That subject of an angel's song, 

The hero, and the saint ! 



AN EPISTLE 

TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESa 

1754. 

'Tis not that I design to roo 
Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, 
For thou art born sole heir, and single, 
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit 
My thread-bare sentiments together 
To show my genius, or my wit, 
When God and you know I have neither ; 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 65 

Or such, as might be better shown 

By letting poetry alone. 

'Tis not with either of these views, 

That I presum'd t' address the Muse : 

But to divert a fierce banditti, 

(Sworn foes to ev'ry thing that's witty !) 

That, with a black, infernal train, 

Make cruel inroads in my brain, 

And daily threaten to drive thence 

My little garrison of sense : 

The fierce banditti, which I mean, 

Are gloomy thoughts, led on by Spleen. 

Then there's another reason yet. 

Which is, that I may fairly quit 

The debt, which justly became due 

The moment when I heard from you ; 

And you might grumble, crony mine. 

If paid in any other coin ; 

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, 

(I would say twenty sheets of prose,) 

Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 

As one of gold, and your s was such. 

Thus, the preliminaries settled, 

I fairly find myself pitch-kettled ;* 

And cannot see, though few see better, 

How I shall hammer out a letter. 

First, for a thought — since all agree — 
A thought — I have it — let me see — 
Tis gone again — plague on't ! I thought 
I had it — but I have it not. 
Dame Gurton thus and Hodge her son, 
That useful thing, her needle, gone ! 
Rake well the cinders sweep the floor, 
And sift the dust behind the door ; 

* Pitch-kettled, a favourite phrase at ihe time when this 
Epistle was written, expressive of being' puzzled, or what, in 
the Spectator's time would have been called bamboozled. 



66 EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 
While eager Hodge beholds the prize 
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes ; 
And gamrner finds it on her knees 
In every shining straw she sees. 
This simile were apt enough : 
But I've another, critick-proof ! 
The virtuoso thus at noon, 
Broiling beneath a July sun, 
The gilded butterfly pursues, 
O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews 
And after many a vain essay, 
To captivate the tempting prey, 
Gives him at length the lucky pat, 
And has him safe beneath his hat : 
Then lifts it gently from the ground j 
But ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 
Culprit his liberty regains. 
Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 
The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 
With simile t' illustrate it ; 
But as too much obscures the sight, 
As often as too little light, 
We have our similes cut short. 
For matters of more grave import. 
That Matthew's numbers run with ease 
Each man of common sense agrees ; 
All men of common sense allow, 
That Robert's lines are easy too ; 
Where then the pref rence shall we place. 
Or how do justice in this case .'' 
Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains, 
Smooth'd and refin'd the meanest strains, 
Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme 
T' escape him at the idlest time : 
And thus o'er all a lustre cast. 
That, while the language lives, shall last, 
An't please your ladyship, (quoth I,) 
For 'tis my business to reply ; 



JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 67 

Sure so much labour, so much toil, 

Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 

Theirs be the laurel wreath decreed 

Who both write well, and write full speed ; 

Who throw their Helicon about 

As freely as a conduit spout ; 

Friend Robert, thus like chien scavantf 

Lets fall a poem e7i passant^ 

Nor needs his genuine ore refine ! 

'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. 



THE FIFTH SATIRE 

OF THE 

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 

[Printed in Duncombe's Horace.] 

1759. 

A humourous Description of the jiuthor's Journey from 
Rome to Brundusium. 

'TwAS a long journey lay before us, 
When 1, and honest Heliodorus, 
Who far in point of rhetorick 
Surpasses every living Greek, 
Each leaving our respective home, 
Together sallied forth from Rome 



68 JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 

First at Aricia we alight, 
And there refresh, and pass the night, 
Our entertainment rather coarse 
Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse. 
Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair 
To Appiiforum we repair. 
But as this road is well supplied 
(Temptation strong !) on either side 
With inns commodious, snug, and warm, 
We split the journey, and perform 
In two days time what's often done 
By brisker travellers in one. 
Here, rather choosing not to sup 
Than with bad water mix my cup, 
After a warm debate, in spite 
Of a provoking appetite, 
I sturdily resolv'd at last 
To balk it, and pronounce a fast, 
And in a moody humour wait, 
While my less dainty comrades bait 

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
Diffused the starry train appear, 
When there arose a desp'rate brawl ; 
The slaves and bargemen, one and all, 
Rending their throats (have mercy on us) 
As if they were resolved to stun us,) 
" Steer the barge this way to the shore ; 
I tell you we'll admit no more ; 
Plague ! will you never be content ?" 
Thus a whole hour at least is spent, 
While they receive the sev'ral fares, 
Andkick the mule into his gears. 
Happy, these difficulties past. 
Could we have fall'n asleep at last ' 
But, what with humming, croaking, biting, 
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, 
These tuneful natives of the lake 



JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 69 

Conspir'd to keep us broad awake. 
Besides to make the concert full, 
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, 
The Bargeman and a passenger, 
Each in his turn, essay'd an air 
In honour of his absent fair. 
At length the passenger, opprest 
With wine, left off, and snor'd the rest. 
The weary bargeman too gave o'er. 
And hearing his companion snore, 
Seiz'd the occasion, fix'd the barge, 
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, 
And slept forgetful of his charge. 
And now the sun o'er eastern hill, 
Disoover'd that our barge stood still ; 
When one, whose anger vex'd him sore, 
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore ; 
Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack 
Assails the mule and driver's back. 

Then slowly moving on with pain, 
At ten Feronia's stream we gain, 
And in her pure and glassy wave 
Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height 
We reach, with stony quarries white. 
While here, as was agreed we wait, 
Till, charg'd with business of the state, 
M83cenas and Cocceius, come, 
The messengers of peace from Rome 
My eyes, by wat'ry humours blear 
And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
At length they join us, and with them 
Our worthy friend Fonteius came ; 
A man of such complete desert, 
Antony lov'd him at his heart. 
At Fundi, we refus'd to bait. 
And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state, 



70 JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 

A prsetor now, a scribe before, 
The purple-border'd robe he wore, 
His slave the smoking censer bore. 
Tir'd, at Murcena's we repose, 
A.t Formia sup at Capito's, 

With smiles the rising morn we greet, 
At Sinuessa pleas'd to meet 
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard 
Whom Mantua, first with wonder heard. 
The world no purer spirits knows ; 
For none my heart more warmly glows. 
O ! what embraces we bestow'd, 
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd 
Sure, while my sense is sound ana clear, 
Long as I live, I shall prefer 
A gay, good natur'd, easy friend, 
To every blessing Heav'n can send. 
• At a small village the next night 
Near the Vulturnus we alight ; 
Where, as employ'd on state aflfairs, 
We were supply'd by the purveyors 
Frankly at once, and without hire, 
With food for man and horse, and fire. 
Capua next day betimes we reach, 
Where Virgil and myself, who each 
Labour 'd with different maladies, 
His such a stomach, mine such eyes. 
As would not bear strong exercise. 
In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 
Mascenas to the tennis-court. 
Next at Cocceius's farm we're treated, 
Above the caudian tavern seated ; 
His kind and hospitable board 
With choice of wholesome food was stor'd. 

Now, O ye nine, inspire my lays ! 
To nobler themes my fancy rise ! 



JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 71 

Two combatants, who scorxi to yield 

The noisy, tongue-disputed field, 

Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim 

A poet's tribute to their fame ; 

Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, 

Sarmentus, who was never freed, 

But ran away. We don't defame him ; 

His lady lives, and still may claim him. 

Thus dignified, in harder fray 

These champions their keen wit display, 

And first Sarmentus led the way. 

'^ Thy locks, (quoth he so rough and coarse, 

Look like the mane of som.e wild horse," 

We laugh : Cicirrus, undismayed — 

" Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. 

'- 'Tis well (Sarmentus says) you've lost 

That horn your forehead once could boast ; 

Since, maim'd and mangled as you are. 

You seem to butt." A hideous scar 

Improv'd ('tis true) with double grace 

The native horrours of his face. 

Well. After much jocosely said 

Of his grim front, so fi'ry red, 

(For Carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er. 

As usual on Campania's shore) 

" Give us, (he cried) since you're so big 

A sample of the Cyclop's jig ! 

Your shanks methinlis no buskins ask, 

Nor does your phiz require a mask." 

To this Cicirrus. <' In return 

Of you. Sir, now I fain would learn, 

When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, 

Your chains you to the Lares gave. 

For tho' a scriv'ner's right you claim, 

Your lady's title is the same. 

But what could make you run away, 

Since, pigmy as you are, each day 



72 JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 

A single pound of bread would quite 
O'erpov/'r your puny appetite !" 
Thus jok'd the champions, while we laugh'd. 
And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd. 

To Bencventum next we steer ; 
Where our good host, by over care 
In roasting thrushes lean as mice, 
Had almost fall'n a sacrifice. 
The kitchen soon was all on fire, 
And to the roof the flames aspire. 
There might you see each man and niastev 
Striving, amidst this sad disaster, 
To save the supper Then they came 
With speed enough to quench the flame. 
From hence we first at distance see 
Th' Apulian hills, well known to me, 
Parch'd by the sultry western blast, 
And which we never should have past. 
Had not Trivicius by the way 
Receiv'd us at the close of day. 
But each was forc'd at ent'ring here 
To pay the tribute of a tear, 
For more of smoke than fire was seen — 
The hearth was pil'd with logs so green. 
From hence in chaises we were carried 
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried 
At a small town, whose name my verse 
(So barb'rous is it) can't rehearse. 
Know it you may by many a sign. 
Water is dearer far than wine. 
Their bread is deem'd such dainty fare, 
That ev'ry prudent traveller 
His wallet loads with many a crust 
For at Canusium you might just 
As well attempt to gnaw a stone 
As think to get a morsel down ; 



JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. 

That too with scanty streams is fed ; 
Its founder was brave Diomed. 
Good Varius (ah, that friends must part !) 
Here left us all with aching- heart, 
At Rubi we arriv'd that day, 
Well jaded by the length of way, 
And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter 
Next day no weather could be better ; 
No roads so bad ; we scarce could crawl 
Along to fishy Barium's wall. 
Th' Ignatians next, who by the rules 
Of common sense are knaves or fools. 
Made all our sides with laughter heavo, 
Since we with them must needs believe, 
That incense in their temples burns, 
And without fire to ashes turns. 
To circumcision's bigots tell 
Such tales ! for me, 1 know full well, 
That in High Heav'n, tmmov'd by care 
The Gods eternal quiet share : 
Nor can I deem their spleen the cause. 
Why fickle nature breaks her laws. 
Brundusium last we reach : and there 
Stop short the muse and traveller 
Vol, in. 7 



(74) 
THE NINTH SATIRE 

OF THE 

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 
ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 

1759. 

Saunt'ring along the street one day, 
On trifles musing by the way — 
Up steps a free familiar wight, 
(I scarcely knew the man by sight.) 
" Carlos, (he cried j your hand, my dear ; 
Gad, 1 rejoice to meet you here ! 
Pray Heav'n I see you well ?" '^ So, so ; 
Ev'n well enough as times now go. 
The same good wishes, sir, to you." 
Finding he still pursu'd me close- 
" Sir, you have business, I suppose." 
" My business, sir, is quickly done, 
'Tis but to make my merit known. 
Sir, I have read" — " O learned Sir, 
You and your learning I revere." 
Then, sweating with anxiety, 
And sadly longing to get free, 
Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't, 
Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, 
Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near, 
And whisper'd nothing in his ear. 

Teas'd with his loose unjointed chat- 
« What street is this ? What house is that ?" 



DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 75 

Harlow, how I envied thee 
Thy unabash'd effrontery, 

Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame. 

And call a coxcomb by his name ! 

When I returned him answer none, 

Obligingly the fool ran on, 

" I sec you're dismally distress'd, 

Would nfive the world to be releas'd. 

But, by your leave, sir, I shall still 

Stick to your skirts, do what you will 

Fray, which way does your journey tend ?" 

" O 'tis a tedious way, my friend, 

Across the Thames, the Lord knows where, 

1 would not trouble you so far." 

" Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." 

'' Are you .'' (thought I) the De'il befriend you." 

No ass with double panniers rack'd, 

Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd. 

E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull 

As I, nor half so like a fool. 

" Sir, I know little of myself, 

(Proceeds the pert conceited elf) 

" If Gray or Mason you will deem 

Than me more worthy your esteem. 

Poems I write by folios 

As fast as other men write prose ; 

Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 

That Beard cannot with me compare. 

In dancing too I all surpass. 

Not Cooke can move with such a grace." 

Heie I made shift with much ado 

To interpose a word or two. — 

" Have you no parents, sir, no friends, 

Whose welfare on your own depends .-"' 

" Parents, relation, say you ? No. 

They're all dispos'd of long ago." — 

" Happy to be no more perplex'd ! 

My fate too threatens, I go next. 



76 DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 
Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late, 
Alas ! to strug-gle with my fate I 
Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come- 
When young, a gipsy told my doom. 
The beldame shook her palsied head, 
As she perus'd my palm, and said : 
Of poison, pestilence, or war, 
Gout, stone defluxion, or catarrh, 
You have no reason to beware. 
Beware the coxcomb's idle prate ; 
Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 
Be sure, when you behold him, fly 
Out of all earshot, or you die." 

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near ; 
Where he was summon'd to appear, 
Refute the charge the plaintifi" brought, 
Or suffer judgment by default. 
" For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait 
One moment! I'll be with you straight." 
Glad of a plausible pretence — 
" Sir, 1 must beg you to dispense 
With my attendance in the court, 
My legs will surely sutfer for't." 
" Nay, prithee, Cfirlos, stop awhile?" 
" Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. 
Besides, I have no time to spare, 
I must be going you know where." 
" Well, I protest, I'm doubtful now. 
Whether to leave my suit or you !" 
" Me without scruple ! (I reply) 
Me by ail means, sir !"' — " No, not I. 
Mlons Monsieur l'' 'Twere vain (you know) 
To strive Avith a victorious foe. 
So I reluctantly obey 
And follow, where he leads the way. 

You and Newcastle are so close, 
Still hand and glove, sir — I suppose. — 



DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 77 

Newcastle (let me tell you, sir) 

Has not his equal every where. 

Well. There indeed your fortune's made , 

Faith, sir, you understand your trade. 

Would you but give me your good word ! 

Just introduce me to my lord. 

I should serve charmingly by way 

Of second fiddle, as they say : 

What think you, sir .'' 'twere a good jest, 

Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." — 
" Sir, you mistake the matter far, 
We have no second fiddles there. — 
Richer than I some folks may be ; 
More learned, but it hurts not me. 
Friends, tho' he has of diff'rent kind. 
Each has his proper place assign'd." 
" Strange matters these alleg'd by you !" — ' 
" Strange they may be, but they are true." - 
" Well, then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever, 
Now I long ten times more than ever 
To be advanc'd extremely near 
One of his shining character. 
Have but the will — there wants no more 
'Tjs plain enough you have the pow'r. 
His easy temper (that's the worst) 
He knows, and is so shy at first. — 
But such a cavalier as you — 
Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to !"— 
^* Well ; if I fail in my design. 
Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 
If by the saucy servile tribe 
Denied, what think you of a bribe ? 
Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, 
But try my luck again to-morrov •. 
Never attempt to visit him 
But at the most convenient time 
Attend him on each levee day, 
And there my humble duty pay 
7* 



78 DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 
Labour, like this, our want supplies ; 
And they must stoop who mean to rise." 

While thus he wittingly harangu'd, 
For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd 
Campley, a friend of mine, came by, 
Who knew his humour more than I. 
We stop, salute, and — " why so fast. 
Friend Carlos ! Whither all this haste ?*'— 
Fir'd at the thoughts of a reprieve, 
I pinch liim, pull him, twitch his sleeve, 
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, 
Do ev'ry thing, but speak plain out : 
While he, sad dog, from the beginning, 
Determin'd to mistake my meaning; 
Instead of pitying my curse. 
By jeering made it ten times worse. 
" Campley, what secret, (pray !) was tha 
You wanted to communicate .'" 
" I recollect. But 'tis no matter, 
Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
^ E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
Another time, sir, just as well." 

Was ever such a dismal day ? 
Unlucky cur, he steals away. 
And leaves me, half bereft of life. 
At mercy of the butcher's knife ; 
When sudden, shouting from afar, 
See his antagonist appear ! 
The bailiff seiz'd him quick as thought 
" IIo, Mr. Scoundrel ! are you caught ? 
Sir, you are witness to th' arrest." 
''' Aye marry, sir, I'll do my best." 
The mob huzzas Away they trudge, 
Culprit and pII, before the judge. 
Meanwhile I luckily enough 
(Thanks to A polio) got clear off. 



SOS 



(79) 



ADDRESSED TO MISS 

ON READING 

THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE 

[1762.*] 

And dwells there in a female heart, 

B}' bounteous heav'n design'd 
The choicest raptures to impart, 

To feel the most refin'd — 

Dwells there a wish in such a breast 

Its nature to forego 
To smother in ignoble rest 

At once both bliss and wo ! 

Far be the thought, and far the strain. 

Which breathes the low desire, 
How sweet soe'er the verse complain. 

Though Phoebus string the lyre. 

Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise) 

Who, knowing them, can tell 
From gen'rous sympathy what joys 

The glowing bosom swell. 

In justice to the various pow'rs 

Of pleasing, which you share. 
Join me, amid your silent hours. 

To form the better pray'r. 
For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, ^^oL v. p 



80 ADDRESS TO MISS 

With lenient balm, may Oh'ron hence 

To fairy land be driv'n ; 
With ev'ry herb that blunts the sense 
Mankind receiv'd from heav'n. 

" Oh ! if my sov reign Author please, 

Far be it from my fate, 
To live, unblest, in torpid ease, 

And slumber on in state. 

Each tender tie of life defied 
Whence social pleasures spring, 

Unmov'd with all the world beside, 
A solitary thing — " 

Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow, 
Thus braves the whirling blast. 

Eternal winter doom'd to know, 
No genial spring to taste. 

In vain warm suns their influence shed, 
The zephyrs sport in vain, 

He rears, unchang'd, his barren head, 
Whilst beauty decks the plain. 

What tho' in scaly armour drest, 

Indifference may repel 
The shafts of wo — in such a breast 

No joy can ever dwell. 

'Tis woven in the world's great plan., 
And fix'd by heav'n's decree, 

That all the true delights of man 
Should spring from Sympathy. 

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws 

Of nature we retain, 
Our self-approving bosom draws 

A pleasure from its pain. 



ADDRESS TO MISS 81 

Thus grief itself has comforts dear, 

The sordid never know ; 
An ecstasy attends the tear, 

When virtue bids it flow. 

For, when it streams from that pure source 

No bribes the heart can win, 
To check, or alter from its course 

The luxury within. 

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, 

Who, if from labour eas'd, 
Extend no care beyond themselves, 

Unpleasing and unpleas'd. 

Let no low thought suggest the pray'r, 

Oh ! grant, kind hcav'n, to me. 
Long as I draw ethereal air, 

Sweet Sensibility. 

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen, 

With lustre-beaming eye, 
A train, attendant on their queen, 

(Her rosy chorus) fly. 

The jocund Loves in Hymen's band, 

With torches ever bright, 
And gon'rous Friendship hand in hand 

With Pity's wat'ry sight. 

The gentler virtues too are join'd, 

In youth immortal warm, 
The soft relations, which, combin'd, 

Give life her ev'ry charm. 

The arts come smiling in the close, 

And lend celestial fire, 
The marble breathes, the canvass glows, 

The muses sweep the lyre. 



82 TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL 

" Still may my melting bosom cleave 

To sufFTings not my own, 
And still the sigh responsive heave, 

Where'er is heard a groan. 

Sa Pity shall take Virtue's part, 

Her natural ally, 
And fashioning my soften'd heart. 

Prepare it for the sky." 

This artless vow may heav'n receive, 
And you, fond maid, approve : 

So may your guiding angel give 
Whate'er you wish or love. 

So may the rosy-finger 'd hours 

Lead on the various year, 
And ev'ry joy, which now is yours, 

Extend a larger sphere. 

And suns to come, as round they wheel 
Your golden moments bless. 

With all a tender heart can feel. 
Or lively fancy guess. 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL, 

iENEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18. 

Thus Italy was moved — nor did the chief, 
^neas, in his mind less tumult feel. 
On every side his anxious thought he turns, 
Restless, unfit, not knowing what to choose. 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 83 

And as a cistern that in brim of brass 

Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun 

Smile on it, or the moon's resplendent orb, 

The quiv'ring light now flashes on the walls, 

Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: 

Such were the wav'ring motions of his mind. 

'Twas night — and weary nature sunk to rest, 

The birds, the bleating flocks were heard no more. 

At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp 

And dewy vaults, fast by the river's brink, 

The Father of his country sought repose. 

When lo ! among the spreading poplar boughs, 

Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose 

The god of Tiber : clear transparent gauze 

Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd : 

And these his gracious words to sooth his care : 

" Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again 

Rescued, and giv'st eternity to Troy, 

Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains 

Expected thee ; behold thy fix'd abode. 

Fear not the threats of war, the storm is pass'd. 

The gods appeas'd. For proof that what thou hear'st 

Is no vain forgery or delusive dream. 

Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, 

A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young. 

Shall greet thy wond'ring eyes. Mark well the place, 

For 'tis thy place of rest : there end thy toils : 

There, thrice ten years elaps'd, fair Alba's walls 

Shall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand. 

Thus shall it be — now listen, while I teach 

The means t' accomplish these events at hand. 

Th' Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, 

Following Evander's standard and his fate. 

High on these mountains, a well chosen spot, 

Have built a city, for their Grandsire's sake, 

Named Pallanteum. These, perpetual war 

Wage with the Latians : join'd in faithful league 

And arms confed'rate, add them to your camp. 



84 TRANSLzVTIOjN FROM VIRGIL. 

Myself, between my winding banks, will speed 

Your well-oar'd barks to stein th' opposing tide. 

Rise, goddess-born, arise ; and with the first 

Declining stars, seek Juno in thy pray'r, 

And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. 

When conquest crowns thee, then remember Me. 

I am the Tiber, whose cerulean stream 

Heav'n favours ; I with copious flood divide 

These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads. 

My mansion, This — and lofty cities crown 

My fountain-head" — He spoke and sought the deep, 

And plung'd his form beneath the closing flood. 

^neas at the morning dawn awoke, 

And rising, with uplifted eye beheld 

The orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'd 

The brimming stream, and thus address'd the skies ; 

" Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the source 

Of many a stream, and thou, with thy bless'd flood, 

O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford, 

At length afford, a shelter from my woes. 

Where'er in secret cavern under ground. 

Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light, 

Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me, 

My ofi''rings and my vows shall wait thee still. 

Great horned Father of Hesperian floods, 

Be gracious now and ratify thy word." 

He said, and chose two gallies from his fleet, 

Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms, 

When lo ! astonishing and pleasing sight, 

The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood, 

Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove. 

To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee 

Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. 

That live-long night old Tiber smooth "d his flood, 

And so restrain'd it, that it seem'd to stand 

Motionless as a pool, or silent lake, 

That not a billow might resist their oars. 

With cheerful sound of exhortation soon 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 85 

Their voyage they begin; the pitchy keel 
Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream 
Admires th' unwonted burthen that it bears, 
Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay. 
Beneath the shade of various trees, between 
Th' umbrageous branches of the spreading groves 
They cut their liquid way, nor day, nor night 
They slack their course, unwinding as they go 
The long meanders of the peaceful tide. 

The glowing sun was in meridian height, 
When from afar they saw the humble walls, 
And the few scatter'd cottages, which now 
The Roman pow'r has equall'd with the clouds ; 
But such was then Evander's scant domain, 
They steer to shore, and hasten to the town. 

It chanc'd th' Arcadian monarch on that day. 
Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, 
Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, 
Alcides and his tutelary gods. 
Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief 
Of all his youth ; with these, a worthy tribe, 
His poor but venerable senate, burnt 
Sweet incense, and their altars smok'd with blood. 
Soon as they saw the tow'ring masts approach, 
Sliding between the trees, while the crew rest 
Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose. 
Not without fear, and all forsook the feast. 
But Pallas' undismay'd, his jav'lin seiz'd, 
Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground 
Forbad them to disturb the sacred rites. 
*' Ye stranger youth ! What prompts you to explore 
This untried way ? and whither do ye steer .'' 
Whence, and who are ye .' Bring ye peace or war .'" 
.^neas from liis lofty deck holds forth 
The peaceful olive-branch, and thus replies : 
** Trojans, and enemies to the Latian state, 
Wliom they with unprovok'd hostilities 
Have driv'n away, thou see'st. We seek Evander— 

Vol. m. 8 



86 TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

S^iy this — and say, besides, the Ti'ojan chiefs 

Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid." 

Pallas with wonder heard that awful name, 

And " whosoe'er thou art," he cried, " come forth ; 

Bear thine own tidings to ir.y Father's ear, 

And be a welcome guest beneath our roof." 

He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast : 

Then led him from the river to the grove, 

Where, courteous, thus ^neas greets the king : 

" Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow 

(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth 

In sign of amity this peaceful branch. 

I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well 

A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, 

And kinsman of th' Atridae. Me my virtue, 

That means no wrong to thee — the Oracles, 

Our kindred families allied of old, 

And thy renown diffus'd through ev'ry land, 

Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee, 

And send me not unwilling to thy shores. 

Dardanus author of the Trojan state, 

(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son ; 

Electra boasted Atlas for her sire. 

Whose shoulders high sustain th' ethereal orbs. 

Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore, 

Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top. 

Her, if we credit aught tradition old, 

Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd 

His daughter. Thus united close in blood, 

Thy race and ours one common sire confess. 

With these credentials fraught, I would not send 

Ambassadori. with artful phrase to sound. 

And win thee by degrees — but came myself — 

Me, therefore, me thou see'st ; my life the stake 

'Tis I, iiEncas, who implore thine aid. 

Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee, 

Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they thinl , 

Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs, 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 87 

AH theirs, from th' upper to the nether sea. 
Take then our friendship, and return us thine. 
We too have courage, we have noble minds, 
And youth well tried, and exercis'd in arms." 

Thus spoke -^neas — He with fix'd regard 
Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien. 
Then briefly thus — " Thou noblest of thy name, 
How gladly do I take thee to my heart, 
How gladly thus confess thee for a friend ; 
In thee I trace Anchises ; his thy speech, 
Thy voice, thy count'nance. For I well remembei 
Many a day since, when Priam journey 'd forth 
To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt 
Hesione, his sister, he push'd on 
E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then 
The bloom of youth was glowing on my che«k ; 
Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and much 
Their king, the son of great Laomedon, 
But most Anchises, tow'ring o'er them all. 
A youthful longing seiz'd me to accost 
The hero, and embrace him ; I drew near, 
And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. 
Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts, 
A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, 
A robe inwove with gold, with gold emboss'd, 
Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. 
The friendly league thou hast solicited 
I give thee therefore, and to-morrow all 
My chosen youth shall wait on your return. 
Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come. 
Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate 
These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, 
And be at once familiar at our board." 

He said, and bade replace the feast removed; 
Himself upon a grassy bank disposed 
The crew, but for iEneas order'd forth 
A couch, spread with a lion's tawny shag, 
And bade him share the honours of his throne. 



88 TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

Th' appointed youth Avith glad alacrity- 
Assist the lab'ring priest to load the board 
"With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves, 
Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well pleas'd 
iEneas and the Trojan youth regale 
On the huge length of a wcll-pastur'd chine. 
Hunger appeas'd, and tables all despatch'd, 
Thus spake Evander : '' Superstition here, 
In this our solemn feasting, has no part. 
No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger sav'd, 
In gratitude this worship we renew. 
Behold that rock which nods above the vale. 
Those bulks of broken stone dispers'd around. 
How desolate the shatter'd cave appears, 
And what a ruin spreads th' encumber'd plain. 
Within this pile, but far within, was once 
The den of Cacus ; dire his hateful form, 
That shunn'd the day, half monster and half man. 
Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the ground 
Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan 
Nail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight. 
Vulcan begot the brute : vast was his size, 
And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. 
But the day came that brought us what we wish'd, 
Th' assistance and the presence of a God. 
Flush'd Avith his vict'ry and the spoils he won 
From triple-form'd Geryon, lately slain, 
The great avenger, Hercules appear'd. 
Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd 
His herds along the vale. But the sly thief 
Cacus, that nothing might escape his hand 
Of villany or fraud, drove from the stalls 
Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four 
The fairest of his heifers ; by the tail 
He dragg'd them to his den, and there conceil'd, 
No footstep might betray the dark abode. 
And now his herd with provender sufficed 
Alcides would be gone ; they as they went 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 89 

Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods, 
And distant hills resound : when hark ! one ox, 
Imprison'd close within the vast recess, 
Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. 
Then fury seiz'd Alcides, and his breast 
With indignation heav'd ; grasping his club 
Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain top 
He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen 
To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears. 
Swift as an eastern blast he sought his den. 
And dread increasing, wing'd him as he went. 
Drawn up in iron slings above the gate 
A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste. 
He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door, 
Then grappled it with iron work within 
Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contriv'd. 
Scarce was he fast, when panting for revenge 
Came Hercules ; he gnash'd his teeth with rage, 
And quick as lightning glanc'd his eyes around 
In quest of entrance. Fiery red, and stung 
With indignation, thrice he wlieel'd his course 
About the mountain ; thrice, but thrice in vain. 
He strove to force the quarry at the gate. 
And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale. 
There stood a pointed rock, abrupt and rude 
That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the back 
Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene 
Of ominous note resorted, choughs and daws. 
This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left, 
Threat'ning the stream below, he f?om the right 
Push'd with his utmost strength, and to and fi'o 
He shook the mass, loos'ning its lowest base ; 
Then shov'd it from its seat ; down fell the pile j 
Sky thunder'd at the fall ; the banks give way, 
Th' affrighted stream flows upward to his source 
Behold the kennel of the brute expos'd. 
The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance 
8* 



90 ' TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

Eartli yawning to the centre should disclose 

The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead, 

Loath'd by the Gods, such would the gulf appear, 

And tlie ghosts tremble at the sight of day. 

The monster braying with unusual din 

Within his hollow lair, and sore amaz'd. 

To see such sudden inroads of the light, 

Alcides press'd him close with what at hand 

Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge 

Of millstone size. He, (for escape was none) 

Wondrous to tell ', forth from his gorge discharged 

A smoky cloud that darken'd all the den ; 

Wreath after wreath he vomited amain 

The smoth'ring vapour, mix'd with fiery sparks. 

No sight could penetrate the veil obscure. 

The hero, more provoked, endur'd not this, 

But, with a headlong leap, he rushed to where 

The thickest cloud envelop'd his abode. 

There grasp 'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires, 

Till crush'd within his arins, the monster shows 

His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, 

And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears down 

The barricade of rock ; the dark abyss 

Lies open, and th' imprison"d bulls, the theft 

He had with oaths denied, are brought to light : 

By th' heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth. 

His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast 

Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws 

Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd. 

Hejice the celebrity thou seest, and hence 

This festal day, Potitius first enjoin'd 

Posterity these solemn rites, he firs'c 

With those who bear the great Pinarian name 

To Hercules devoted, in the grove 

This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest 

By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd. 

Come then, my friends, and bind your youthful browa 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 91 

In praise of such deliv'rance, and hold forth 
The brimming- cup : your deities and ours 
Are now the same ; then drink, and freely too. 
So saying, he twisted round his rev'rend locks 
A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'd 
His right hand with a consecrated bowl. 
At once all pour libations on the board. 
All offer pray'r. And now the radiant sphere 
Of day descending, eventide drew near. 
When first Potitius with the priests advanc'd, 
Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands. 
High piled with meats of sav'ry taste, tlicy ranged 
The chargers, and renewed the grateful feast. 
Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too 
Circling the blazing altars ; here the youth 
Advanced, a choir harmonious ; there were heard 
The rev'rend seers responsive ; praise they suno-, 
Much praise in honour of Alcides' deeds ,; 
How first, with infant gripe, two serpents huge 
He strangled, sent from Juno ; next they sung, 
How Troja and the Oechalia he destroyed, 
Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task 
Beneath Eurystheus, (so his step-dame will'd) 
Achiev'd victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair, 
Hylosus fierce and Pholos, monstrous twins, 
Thou slewst the Minotaur, the plague of Crete, 
And the vast lion of the Nemean rock. 
Thee Hell, and Cerberus, Hell's porter, fear'd, 
Stretch 'd in his den upon his half-gnawM bones. 
Tiiee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast 
Typhoeus could appal, though clad in arms. 
Hail, true born son of Jove, among the Gods 
At length enroU'd, nor least illustrious thou, 
Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs ;" 
I'hus hymn'd the chorus ; above all they sing 
The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breath'd. 
The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. 



92 TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

The rites perform'd all hasten to tlie town. 
The king, bending with age, held as he went 
^neas and his Pallas by the hand, 
With much variety of pleasing talk 
Short'ning the way. ^neas, with a smile, 
Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful scene 
And many a question asks, and much he learns 
Of heroes far renown'd in ancient times. 
Then spake Evander. These extensive groves 
Were once inhabited by fawns and nymphs 
Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race 
Of men, the progeny uncouth of ehiis 
And knotted oaks. They no refinement knew 
Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke 
The steer, with forecast provident to store 
The hoarded grain, or manage what they had, 
But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, 
Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. 
An exile from Olympus, and expell'd 
His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove, 
First Saturn came. He from the mountains drew 
This herd of men untractable and fierce, 
And gave them laws ; and call'd his hiding-place, 
This growth of forests, Latiurn. Such the peace 
His land possess'd, the golden age was then, 
So fam'd in story : till by slow degrees 
Far other times, and of far diff rent hue. 
Succeeded thirst of gold and thirst of blood. 
Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts 
From Sicily, and Latium often changed 
Her master and her name. At length arose 
Kings, of whom Tibris of gigantick form 
Was chief, and we Italians since have call'd 
The river by his name ; thus Albula 
(So was the countrj^ call'd in ancient days) 
Was quite forgot. Me from my native land 
An exile, thro' the dang'rous ocean driv'Hf, 



TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 93 

Resistless fortune and relentless fate 
Placed where thou see'st me. Phoebus, and 
The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care, 
Attendant on my wand'rings, fix'd me here. 

[Ten lines omitted.] 

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock. 
And the rude spot, where now the capitol 
Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, 
Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then 
The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe ; 
The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear. 
This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top 
Of this fair hill, some deity, we know, 
Inhabits, but what deity we doubt. 
Th' Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself, 
That they have often seen him, shaking here 
His gloomy ^gis, while the thunder-storms 
Came rolling all around him. Turn thy eyes, 
Behold that ruin ; those dismantled walls, 
Where once two towns, laniculum — 
By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, 
Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath 
The roof of poor Evander, thence they saw, 
Where now tne proud and stately forum stands, 
The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the lield. 
Soon as he enter'd — Hercules, he said, 
Victorious Hercules, on this threshold trod, 
These walls contain'd him, humble as they are. 
Dare to despise magnificence, my friend, 
Prove thy divine descent by wortfi divine, 
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. 
So saying, he led .^neas by tlie hand. 
And plac'd him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves, 
Spread with the skin of a Libistian bear. 

[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan oviitted} 



L 



94 TRANSLATION FROM OVID. 

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employed, 
Awakeu'd by the gentle dawn of day, 
And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves 
Of his low mansion, old Evander rose. 
His tunick, and the sandals on his feet, 
And his good sword well-girded to his side, 
A panther's skin dependent from his left, 
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant, 
Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs followed him, 
His whole retinue and his nightly guard. 



OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. ELEG. XII 

Scrihis, ut ohlectem. 

You bid me write t'amuse the tedious hours, 
And save from with'ring my poetick pow'rs. 
Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow 
From the free mind, not fetter 'd down by wo ; 
Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, 
Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. 
Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain. 
Or childless Niobe from tears refrain, 
Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train ? 
Does grief or study most befit the mind. 
To this remote, this barb'rous nook confin'd ? 
Could you impart to my unshaken breast, 
The fortitude by Socrates possess'd, 
Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine. 
For what is human strength to wrath divine ? 
Wise as he was, and Heav'n pronounc'd him so., 
My suff'rings would have laid that wisdom low. 
Could I forget my country, thee and all. 
And e'en th' offence to which I owe my fall, 



TRANSLATION FROM OVID. 95 

Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein, 
While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. 
Add that the fatal rust of long disuse 
Unfits me for the service of the muse. 
Thistles and weeds are all we can expect 
From the best soil impov'risb'd by neglect ; 
Unexercis'd, and to his stall confin'd, 
The fleetest racer w^ould be left behind ; 
The best built bark that cleaves the wafry way, 
Laid useless by, would moulder and decay — 
No hope remains that time shall me restore, 
Mean as I was, to what I was before. 
Think how a series of desponding cares 
Benumbs the genius, and its force impairs. 
How oft, as now on this devoted sheet, 
My verse constrain'd to move with measur'd feet, 
Reluctant and laborious limps along. 
And proves itself a wretched exile's song. 
What is it tunes the most melodious lays ? 
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, 
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me. 
While smoothly v/afted on a calmer sea. 
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame r 
No, rather let the world forget my name. 
Is it because that world approv'd my strain, 
You prompt me to the same pursuit again .'' 
No, let the Nine th' ungrateful truth excuse, 
I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse, 
And, like Perillus, meet my just desert, 
The victim of my own pernicious art. 
Fool that I was, to be so warn'd in vain, 
And shipwreck'd once to tempt the deep again, 
111 fares the bard in this unletter'd land. 
None to consult, and none to understand. 
The purest verse has no admirers here, 
Their own rude language only suits their ear. 
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown, 
I learn it, and almost unlearn mv own — 



96 A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. 

Yet to say truth, e'en here the Muse disdains 
Confinement, and attempts her former strains, 
But finds the strong desire is not the pow'r, 
And what her taste condemns, the flames devour. 
A part, perhaps, hke this, escapes the doom, 
And tho' unworthy, finds a friend at Rome. 
But oh the cruel art, that could undo 
Its vot'ry thus, would that could perish too : 



A TALE, 

FOUNDED ON A FACT 

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1799. 

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream, 

There dwelt a wretch who breath'd but to blaspheme 

In subterraneous caves his life he led, 

Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. 

When on a day emerging from the deep, 

A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep I) 

The wages of his weekly toil he bore 

To buy a cock — whose blood inight win him more • 

As if the noblest of the feather'd kind 

Were but for battle and for death designed ; 

As if the consecrated hours were meant 

For sport, to minds on cruelty intent ; 

It chanc'd (such chances Providence obey) 

He met a fellow-lab"xer on the way. 

Whose heart the same desires had once inflam'd ', 

But now the savage temper was reclaim'd. 



A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT. 97 

Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; 

For all plead well, who plead the cause of grace. 

His iron-heart with scripture he assail'd, 

Woo'J him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd 

His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, 

Swift, as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew. 

He wept ; he trembled ; cast his eyes around, 

To find a worse than he ; but none he found. 

He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel, 

Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal. 

Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies ! 
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. 
That holy day Avhich wash'd with many a tear, 
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. 
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine 
Learn'd, by his alter'd speech — the change divine ! 
Laugh"d when they should have wept, and swore the 

day 
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they. 
" No, (said the penitent,) such words shall share 
This breath no more ; devoted now to pray'r. 
O ! if thou see'st (thine eye the future sees) 
That I shall yet again blaspheme like these ; 
Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, 
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; 
Now take me to that Heaven I once defied, 
Thy presence, thy embrace !" — He spoke and diod < 

Vol. hi. 9 



( 98 ) 
TRANSLATION 

OF A 

SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST. 

[June, 1780. 

** So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds 
" Ascending, ^c." 

Quales aerii montis de vertice nubes 

Cum surgunt, et jam Borese tumida ora quierunt, 

Coelum hilares abdit, spissa caligine, vultus : 

Tum si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 

Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, 

Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros, 

Balatuque ovmra colles vallesque resultant. 



TRANSLATION 

OF 

DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM ON MILTON 

" Three Poets, in three distant ages born, ^c " 
[July, 1780.] 

Tres tria, sed longe distantia, ssecula vates 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios 

Graeoia sublimem, cum majestate disertum 
Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. 

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, ooacta est, 
Tertius ut fieret, consociaic duos. 



(99) 
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON 

OK HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE. 
[Oct. 1780.] 

That ocean you have late survey 'd, 

Those rocks I too have seen, 
But I afflicted and dismay 'd, 

You tranquil and serene. 

You from the flood-controlling steep 
Saw stretch'd before your view, 

With conscious joy, the threat'ning deep, 
No longer such to you. 

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke 

Upon the dang'rous coast, 
Hoarsely and ominously spoke 

Of all my treasure lost. 

Your sea of troubles you have past, 
And found the peaceful shore ; 

1, tempest toss'd, and wreck'd at last, 
Come home to port no more. 



LOVE ABUSED. 

What is there in the vale of life 

Half so delightful as a wife, 

When friendship, love, and peace combine 

To stamp the marriage bond divine .'' 



too AN EPJSTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. 
The stream of pure and geniune love 
Derives its current from above ; 
And earth a second Eden shows, 
Where'er the heahng water flows ; 
But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
Of sensual nature's fev'rish veins. 
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, 
Impregnated with ooze and mud. 
Descending fast on every side, 
Once mingles with the sacred tide. 
Farewell the soul-enliv'ning scene ' 
The banks that wore a smiling green, 
With rank defilement overspread, 
Bev/ail their flow'ry beauties dead. 
The stream polluted, dark, and dull, 
Diffus'd into a Stygian pool, 
Through life's last melancholy years 
Is fed with overflowing tears : 
Complaints supply the zephyr's part. 
And sighs that heave a breaking heart. 



A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY 
AUSTEN. 

Dec. 17, 1781. 

Dear Anna — between friend and friend, 
Prose answers every common end ; 
Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
T' express th' occurrence of the day ; 
Our health, the weather, and the news ; 
What walks we take, what books we choose ; 
And all the floating thoughts we find 
Upon the surface of the mind. 



AN EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. 101 

But when a poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men, 
He feels a gentle tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Deriv'd from nature's noblest part, 
The centre of a glowing heart : 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No flights above the pitch of prose, 
His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Denominates an itch for writing. 
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme 
To catch the triflers of the time. 
And tell them truths divine and clear, 
Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear ; 
Who labour hard to allure and draw 
The loiterers I never saw. 
Should feel that itching, and that tingling 
With all ray purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsick merit true. 
When call'd t' address myself to you. 

Mysterious are his ways, whose pov^er 
Brings forth that unexpected hour. 
When minds, that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is the allotment of the skies. 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connexions : 
Directs us in our distant road. 
And marks the bounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us. 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend. 
Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* 

* An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the resioence oi 
Co^^Tser, wiiicli faced the market-place 



102 AN EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. 
Thus Martha, e'en against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairest scenes of sweet Sancerre,* 
Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
This page of Providence quite new. 
And now just opening to our view, 
Employs our present thoughts and pains 
To guess, and spell, what it contains : 
But day by day, and year by year, 
Will make the dark enigma clear ; 
And furnish us, perhaps, at last, 
Like other scenes already past. 
With proof, that we, and our affairs, 
Are part of a Jehovah's cares : 
For God unfolds, by slow degrees. 
The purport of his deep decrees ; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light 
In aid of our defective sight ; 
And spreads at length before the soul 
A beautiful and perfect whole, 
Which busy man's inventive brain 
Toils to anticipate, in vain. 

Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown, 
Could you, the' luminous your eye, 
By looking on the bud, descry. 
Or guess, with a prophetick power, 
The future splendour of the flower ? 
Just so, th' Omnipotent who turns 
The system of a world's concerns, 
From mere minutisB can educe 
Events of most important use ; 
And bid a dawning sky display 
The blaze of a meridian day. 

* I-iady Austen's residence in France 



AN EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. 103 

The works of man lend, one and all, 

As needs they must, from great to small , 

And vanity absorbs at length 

The monuments of human strength. 

But who can tell how vast the plan. 

Which this day's incident began ! 

Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion, 

For our dim-sighted observation ; 

It pass'd urmotic'd, as tiie bird 

That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 

And yet may prove, when understood, 

An harbinger of endless good. 

Not that I deem, or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small . 
But merely to remark, tliat ours, 
Like some of natures sweetest flowers, 
Rose from a seed of tiny size, 
That seem'd to promise no such prize ; 
A transient visit intervening. 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination, 
Much less of pleasing expectation,) 
Producd a friendship, then begun, 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And plac'd it in our pow'r to prove. 
By long fidelity and love, 
That SoJoiiion has wisely spoken : 
" A threefold cord is not soon broken." 



(104) 

FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON 

Late Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth 
[Dated May 28, 1782.] 

Says the pipe to the snufF-box, I can't understand 
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face 

That you are in fashion all over the land, 
And I am so much fallen into disgrace. 

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 

I give to the company — pray do but note 'em — 
You would think that the wise men of Greece were all 
there, 
Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of 
Gotham. 

My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, 
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ; 

There is nothing but sniv'ling and blowing of noses, 
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear. 

Then lifting his lid in a delicate way. 

And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite engaging, 
The box in reply was heard plainly to say, 

What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 

If you have a little of merit to claim, 

You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed, 
And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, 

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. 

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, 
No room for a sneer, much less a cachirmus, 

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, 
But of any thing else they may choose to put in us 



L 105 ] 

THE COLUBRIAD 

[1782.] 

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, 

Three kittens sat : each kitten look'd aghast. 

I passing swift, and inattentive by, 

At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 

Not much concern'd to know what they did there ; 

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud and furious hiss 

Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim " what's this ?" 

When lo '. upon the threshold met my view, 

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 

A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, 

Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 

Who, having never seen, in field or house, 

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse : 

Only projecting, with attention due, 

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, " who are you ? 

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow. 

But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe ; 

With which well arm'd 1 hastcn'd to the spot, 

To find the viper, but I found him not. 

And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 

Found only, that he was not to be found. 

But still the kittens sitting as before. 

Sat watching close the bottom of the door 

" I hope," said I, " the villain 1 would kill, 

Has slipp'd between the door, and the door's sill ; 

And if I make despatch, and follow hard. 

No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :" 

For long ere now it should have been rehears'd, 

Twas in the garden that I found him first. 



106 ON FRIENDSHIP. 

Ev'n there 1 found him, there the full-grown cat 

His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 

As curious as the kittens erst had been 

To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 

Fill'd with heroick ardour at the sight. 

And fearing every moment he would bite, 

And rob our household of our only cat. 

That was of age to combat with a rat ; 

With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, 

And taught him never to come there no more 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. . . . Cicero 

[1782.] 

What virtue can we name, or grace, 
But men unqualified and base 

Will boast it their possession ? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dulness of discretion. 

But as the gem of richest cost 
Is ever counterfeited most, 

So, always, imitation 
Employs the utmost skill she can 
To counterfeit the faithful man, 

The friend of long duration. 

Some will pronounce me too severe — 

But long experience speaks me clear ; 

Therefore that censure scorning, 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 107 

1 will proceed to mark the shelves, 
On which so many dash themselves, 
And give the simple warning. 

Youth, unadmonish'd by a guide, 
Will trust to any fair outside : 

An errour soon corrected ; 
For who, but learns, with riper years, 
That man, when smoothest he appears, 

Is most to be suspected ! 

But here again a danger lies 
Lest, thus deluded by our eyes. 

And taking trash for treasure, 
We should, when undeceiv'd, conclude 
Friendship, imaginary good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 

An acquisition, rather rare. 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor should it seem distressful, 
If either on forbidden ground, 
Or, where it was not to be found, 

We sought it unsuccessful. 

No friendship will abide the test 
That stands on sordid interest 

And mean self-love erected 
Nor such, as may awhile subsist 
'Twixt sensualist and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 

Who hopes a friend, should have a heart. 
Himself, well furnish'd for the part. 

And ready on occasion 
To show the virtue that he seeks ; 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

A just reciprocation. 



108 FRIENDSHIP. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sharp corrosion ■ 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 

In vain the talkative unite 
With hope of permanent delight, 

The secret just committed : 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 
Forgetting its important weight, 

And by themselves outwitted. 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams 

If envy chance to creep in ; 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 

As envy pines at good possess'd, 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd 

On good that seems approaching ; 
And, if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a friend. 

And hates him for encroaching. 

Hence authors of illustrious name, 
(Unless belied by common fame,) 

Are sadly prone to quarrel ; 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
So much of loss to their own praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 

A man renowned for repartee, 
Will seldom scruple to make free 
With friendship's finest feeling, 



FRIENDSHIP. 109 

Will thrust a dagger at your breast 
And tell you, 'twas a special jest, 
By way of balm for healing. 

Beware of tattlers ; keep your ear 
Close stopp'd against the tales they bear; 

Fruits of their own invention ; 
The separation of chief friends 
Is what their kindness most intends ; 

Their sport is your dissension. 

Friendship that wantonly admits 
A joco-serious play of wits 

In brilliant altercation, 
Is union such as indicates, 
Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, 

Danger of conflagration. 

Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as the needle to the pole j 

Yet shifting, like the weather, 
The needle's constancy forego 
For any novelty, and show 

Its variations rather 

Insensibility makes some 
Unseasonably deaf and dumb, 

When most you need their pity ; 
'Tis waiting till the tears shall fall 
From Gog and Magog in Guildhall, 

Those playthings of the city. 

The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete : 

Th' attempt would scarce be madder, 
Should any, from the bottom, hope 
At one huge stride to reach the top 

Of an erected ladder. 
Vol. III. 10 



no FRIENDSHIP. 

Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politicks 

Without an effervescence, 
Such as of salts with lemon juice 
But which is rarely known t' induce, nil 

Like that, a coalescence. ':> 

Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life • 

But even those who differ 
Only on topicks left at large, 
How fiercely will they meet and charge > 't 

No combatants are stiffer. 

To prove, alas ! my main intent, 
Needs no great cost of argument, 

No cutting and contriving ; 
Seeking a real friend, we seem 
T' adopt the chymist's golden dream 

With still less hope of thriving. 

Then judge, or ere you choose your man 
As circumspectly as you can. 

And, having made election, 
See that no disrespect of yours. 
Such as a friend but ill endures. 

Enfeeble his affection. 

It is not timber, lead, and stone. 
An architect requires alone. 

To finish a great building ; 
The palace were but half complete. 
Could he by any chance forget 

The carving and the gilding. 

As similarity of mind. 
Or something not to be defin'd, 
First rivets our attention ; 



FRIENDSHIP. Ill 

So, manners decent and polite, 
The same we practis"d at first sight, 
Must save it from declension 

The man who hails you Tom — or Jack, 
And proves by thumping on your back 

His sense of your great merit, 
Is such a friend, that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed, 

To pardon, or to bear it. 

Some friends make this their prudent plan-* '^*' 
" Say little, and hear all you can ?" 

Safe policy, but hateful. 
So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
But render neither fruit nor flcw'r 

Unpleasant and ungrateful 

They whisper trivial things, and small > 
But, to communicate at all 

Things serious, deem improper ; 
Their feculence and froth they show, 
But keep their best contents below, 

Just like a simm'ring copper. 

These samples (for alas ! at last 
These are but samples, and a taste 

Of evils yet unmentioned) 
May prove the task, a task indeed, 
In which 'tis much, if we succeed, 

However well-intention'd. 

Pursue the theme, and you shall find 
A disciplin'd and furnish'd mind 

To be at least expedient. 
And after summing all the rest, 
Religion ruling in the breast 

A principal ingredient. 



112 THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

True friendship has, in short, a grace 
More than terrestrial in its face, 

That proves it heav'n-descended: 
Man's love of woman not so pure, 
Nor, when sincerest, so secure 

To last till life is ended. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 



[To the March in Scipio.'] 

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED 

[September, 1782.] 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more, 
AH sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 

Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone j 
His last sea-iight is fought ; 

His work of glory done. 



THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 113 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock j 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in his sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down, 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup, 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound. 

And she may float again, 
Full-cliarg'd with England's thunder^ 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred, 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

10 » 



( 114 ) 

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, GUI GEORGIUS 
REGALIS NOMEN, INDITUM. 

Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, 
Patrium propter periere littus 
His quater centum ; subito sub alto 
^quore mersi. 

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, 
Cum levis, funes quatiens, ad imum 
Depulit aura. 

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
Fortibus vitam voluere parcae, 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos receijtea 
Nectere laurus. 

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
At tuos olim memorabit sevum 
Omne triumphos. 

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, 
Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, 
Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
Abstulit ensis. 

NavitaB sed turn nimiura jocosi 
Voce fallebant hilari laborem, 
Et quiescebat calamoque dextram im- 
pleverat heros. 

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos 
Reddite amicis ! 



115 ON PEACE. 

Hi quidem (sic dis placuit) fuere : 
Sed ratis, nondum putris, ire possit 
Rursus in bellura, Britonumque uomen 
Tollere ad astra. 



SONG 
ON PEACE. 

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST 
OF LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVE THE SENTIMENT. 

Mr — " My fond shepherds of late," ^c. 

No longer I follow a sound ; 
No longer a dream I pursue : 

happiness 1 not to be found, 
Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 

1 have sought thee in splendour and dress, 
In the regions of pleasure and taste j 

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, 
But have prov'd thee a vision at last. 

An humble ambition and hope 

The voice of true wisdom inspires -. 

'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope. 
And the summit of all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 
That seeks in it meekness and lovo ; 

But rapture and bliss are confin'd 
To the glorified spirits above. 



( IIG ) 



SONG.* 

Jiir- " The Lass of Pattie's Mill.* 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seeras to smilo ' 
Delights that never cease, 

The live -long day beguile. 
From morn to dewy eve, 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings to deceive, 

And sooth the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives nature power to please ; 
The mind that feels no smart, 

Enlivens all it sees ; 
Can make a wint'ry sky 

Seem bright as smiling May, 
And evening's closing eyo 

As peep of early day. 

The vast majestick globe, 

So beauteously array'd 
In nature's various robe, 

With wondrous skill displayed, 
Is to a mourner's heart 

A dreary wild at best ; 
It flutters to depart. 

And longs to be at rest. 
* Also written at the request of Lady Austen. 



(117) 



VERSES 

8XLBCTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL POEM, ENTITLED 

VALEDICTION. 

[JVoremJer, 1783.] 

Oh Friendship ! Cordial of the human breast 
So little felt, so fervently profess'd ! 
Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; 
The promise of delicious fruit appears : 
We hug the hopes of constancy and truth. 
Such is the folly of our dreaming youth ; 
But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake 
That sanguine inexperience loves to make , 
And view with tears th' expected harvest lost, 
Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. 
Whoever undertakes a friend's great part 
Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart. 
Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove 
A thousand ways the force of genuine love. 
He may be call'd to give up health and gain, 
T' exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, 
To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan. 
And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. 
The heart of man, for such a task too frail. 
When most relied on, is most sure to fail ; 
And, summon'd to partake its fellow's wo. 
Starts from its office, like a broken bow. 

Vot'ries of business, and of pleasure, prove 
Faithless alike in friendship and in love. 



118 FROM THE POEM OF VALEDICTION. 

Retir'd from all the circles of the gay, 
And all the crowds, that bustle life away, 
To scenes, where competition, envy, strife, 
Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life. 
Let me, the charge of some good angel, find 
One, who has known, and has escaped mankind ; 
Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away 
The manners, not the morals, of the day : 
With him, perhaps with her, (for men have known 
No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,) 
Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, 
All former friends forgiven, and forgot, 
Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, 
Union of hearts, without a flaw between. 
'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, 
If God give health, that sunshine of our days ! 
And if he add, a blessing shared by few, 
Content of heart, more praises still are due — 
But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd 
Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest ; 
And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, 
Born from above, and made divinely wise, 
He gives, what bankrupt nature never can. 
Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, 
Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, 
A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. 



THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 1J9 

IN BREVITATEM VITM SPATII HOMINIBUS 
CONCESSL 

BY DR. JORTIN. 

Hei mihi ! Lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
Lunaque mutatse reparat dispendia forrnse, 
Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei, 
Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris ahirani 
Graminis herba verens, et florum picta propago, 
Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit, 
Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni 
Teraperies anni, foecundo, e cespite surgunt. 
Nos domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati, 
Cum breve ver vitae robustaque transiit cetas, 
Deficimus ; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras 
Reddit in aethereas, tumuli neque claustra resolvit 



ON THE 

SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. 

[January, 1784.] 

Suns that set, and moons that wane, 
Rise, and are restor'd again, 
Stars that orient day subdues, 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 
Of the genial womb of earth. 
Suffer but a transient death 
From Ihe winter's cruel breath. 



120 TO MISS C , ON HER BIRTH-DAY 

Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
We, alas ! Earths haughty kings, 
We, that promise mighty things, 
Losing soon life's happy prime, 
Droop, and fade, in little time. 
Spring returns, but not our bloom, 
Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 



EPITAPH ON JOHNSON. 

[January, 1785.] 

Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd, 

Whom to have bred, may well make England proud 

Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught ; 

The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought ; 

Whose verse may claim — grave, masculine, and strong, 

Superiour praise to the mere poet's song ; 

Who many a noble gift from Heav'n possess'd, 

And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 

O man, immortal by a double prize. 

By fame on earth — by glory in the skies ! 



TO MISS C , ON HER BIRTH-DAY 

[1786.] 

How many between east and west, 

Disgrace their parent earth, 
Whose deeds constrain us to detest 

The day that give them birth ' 



GRATITUDE. 121 

Not so when Stella's natal morn 

Revolving months restore, 
We can rejoice that she was born, 

And wish her born once more ! 



GRATITUDE. 
ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 

[1786.] 

This cap, that so stately appears, 

With riband-bound tassel on high, 
Which seems by the crest that it rears 

Ambitious of brushing the sky : 
This cap to my cousin I owe, 

She gave it, and gave me beside, 
Wreath'd into an elegant bow. 

The riband with which it is tied. 

This wheel-footed studying chair, 

Contriv'd both for toil and repose, 
Wide-elbow'd and wadded with hair, 

In which I both scribble and doze. 
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, 

And rival in lustre of that 
In which, or astronomy lies, 

Fair Cassiopeia sat : 

These carpets, so soft to the foot, 

Caledonia's traffick and pride, 
Oh, spare them, ye knights of the boot, 

Escaped from a cross-country ride ! 
This taWe and mirror within. 

Secure from collision and dust, 
At which I oft shave cheek and chin 

And periwig nicely adjust : 
Vol. hi. 11 



122 GRATITUDE. 

This moveable structure of shelves, 

For its beauty admired, and its use, 
And charged witli octavos and twelves, 

The gayest I liad to produce . 
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, 

My poems enchanted 1 view, 
And hope, in due time to behold 

My Iliad and Odyssey too : 

This china, that decks the alcove. 

Which here people call a buffet, 
But w^hat the gods call it above. 

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet ; 
These curtains, that keep the room warm 

Or cool, as the season demands, 
These stoves that for pattern and form. 

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands : 

All these are not half that I owe 

To one, from her earliest youth i 

To me ever ready to show 

Benignity, friendship, and truth ; 
For time, the destroyer declar'd 

And foe of our perishing kind, 
If even her face he has spar'd. 

Much less could he alter her mind. 

Thus compass'd about with the goods 

And chattels of leisure and ease, 
I indulge my poetical moods, 

In many such fancies as these ; 
And fancies I fear they will seem — 

Poets' goods are not often so fine ; 
The poets will swear that I dream, 

When I sing of the splendour of mine. 



( 123 ) 



THE FLATTING-MILL. 



AN ILLUSTRATION. 

When a bar of pure silver, or ingot of gold, 
Ts sent to be flatted or wrought into length, 
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd 
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. 

Thus tortur'd and squeezed, at last it appears 
Like a loose heap of riband, a glittering show, 
Like musick it tinkles and rings in your ears, 
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow. 

This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain 
The thump-after-thump-of a gold-beater's mallet 
And at last is of service in sickness or pain 
To cover a pill for a delicate palate. 

Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake 

To urge reformation of national ill — 

His head and his heart are both likely to ache 

With the double employment of mallet and mill. 

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight. 
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow, 
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, 
And catch in its progress a sensible glow. 

After all, he must beat it as thin and as fine 
As the leaf that unfolds what an invalid swallows, 
For truth is unwelcome, however divine, 
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows. 



LINES 

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF 

ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ. 

IMMEDIAT.KLY AFTER HIS DEATH, 

BY HIS NEPHEW, WILLIAM OF WESTON 

[June, 1788.] 

Farewell ! endued with all that could engage 
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! 
In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd 
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; 
In life's last stage — O blessings rarely found — 
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd ; 
Through every period of this changeful state, 
Unchang'd thyself — wise, good, affectionate ' 

Marble may flatter ; and lest this should seem 
O'ercharg'd with praises on so dear a theme, 
Although thy worth be more than half supprest, 
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 



ON THE 

QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, 

THE NIGHT OF THE 17th MARCH, 1789. 

When, long sequester'd from his throne, 

George took his seat again. 
By right of worth, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign. 



THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON. 125 

Then Loyalty, with all his lamps 

New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 
Chasing the darkness, and the damps, 

Set London in a glow. 

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares, 

Which form'd the chief display, 
These most resembling cluster'd stars, 

Those the long milky way. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires^ 

And rockets flew, self-driv'n. 
To hang their momentary fires 

Amid the vault of Heav'n. 

So, fire with water to compare. 

The ocean serves, on high 
Up-spouted by a whale in air, 

T' express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

la one procession join'd. 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er design'd. 

For no such sight had England's Queen 

Forsaken her retreat, 
Where, George recover'd, made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness undescri'd, 
How much the object of her love 

Was lov'd by all beside. 

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er, 

In aid of her design — 

Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of tliine ! 
11 » 



12G THE QUEENS VISIT TO LONDON. 

On borrow 'd wheels away she flies, 

Resolv'd to be unknown, 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night, except'her own. 

Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees, 
And hears the million hum ; 

As all by instinct, like the bees, 

Had known their sov'reign come. 

Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtray'd 

On many a splendid wall, 
Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the ffinigmatick line, 

So difficult to spell. 
Which shock Belshazzar at his wine, 

The night his city fell. 

Soon, wat'ry grew her eyes and dim, 

But with a joyful tear. 
None else, except a pray'r for him, 

George ever drew from her. 

It v;as a scene in ev'ry part 

Like those in fable feign'd. 

And seem'd by some magician's art 
Created and sustain'd. 

But other magick there, she knew, 

Had been exerted none. 
To raise such wonders in her view, 

Save love of George alone. 

That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd. 
And through the cumb'rous throng 

Not else unworthy to be fear'd. 
Convey 'd her calm along. 



THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND. 127 

So, ancient poets say serene 

The sea-maid rides the waves, 
And fearless of the billowy scene 

Her peaceful bosom lares. 

With more than astronomick eyes 

She view'd the sparkling show ; 
One Georgian star adorns the skies, 

She myriads found below 

Yet let the glories of a nigh 

Like that once seen, suffice, 
Heav'n grant us no such future sight, 

Such previous wo the price ! 



COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND. 

[May, 1789.] 

Muse — Hide his name of whom I sing. 
Lest his surviving house thou bring. 

For his sake, into scorn ; 
Nor speak the School from which he drew 
The much or little that he knew, 

Nor place where he was born. 

That such a man once was, may seem 
Worthy of record (if the theme 

Perchance may credit win) 
For proof to man, what man may prove, 
If grace depart, and demons move 

The source of guilt within. 



128 THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND. 
Th.i3 man (for since the howling wild 
Disclaims him, Man he must be styl'd) 

Wanted no good below, 
Gentle he was, if gentle birth 
Could make him such, and he had worth, 
If wealth can worth bestow. 

In social talk and ready jest 
He shone superiour at the feast, 

And qualities of mind 
Illustrious in the eyes of those 
Whose gay society he chose, 

Possess'd of every kind. 

Methinks I see him powder'd red, 
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head 

Wing'd broad on either side. 
The mossy rose bud not so sweet 
His steed superb, his carriage neat 

As lux'ry could provide. 

Can such be cruel ! — Such can be 
Cruel as hell, and so is he ! 

A tyrant, entertain'd 
With barb'rous sports, whose fell delight 
Was to encourage mortal fight 

'Twixt birds to battle train'd. 

Ono feather'd champion he possess'd, 
His darling far beyond the rest, 

Which never knew disgrace, 
Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow 
The life-blood of his fiercest foe, 

The Cassar of his race. 

It chanced, at last, when, on a day, 

He push'd him to the desp'rate fray 

His courage droop'd, he fled. 



THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND 129 

The Master storm'd, the prii:e was lost, 
And, instant frantick at the cost, 

He doom'd his fav'rite dead. 

He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit 
Flew to his kitchen, snatch'd the spit. 

And, bring me cord, he cried — 
The cord was brought, and at his word, 
To that dire implement the bird. 

Alive and struggling, tied. 

The horrid sequel asks a veil, 
And all the terrours of the tale 

That can he, shall be, sunk — 
Led by the sulTrer's screams aright. 
His shock'd companions view the sight, 

And him with fury drunk. 

All, suppliant beg a milder fate 
For the old warriour at the grate : 

He, deaf to pity's call, 
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel 
His culinary club of steel. 

Death menacing on all. 

But vengeance hung not far remote, 

For while he stretch'd his clam'rous throaty 

And heav'n and earth defied. 
Big with a curse too closely pent. 
That struggled vainly for a vent. 

He totter'd, reel'd, and died. 

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, 
To point the judgments of the skies. 

But judgments plain as this, 
That, sent for Man's instruction, bring 
A written label on their wing, 

'Tis hard to read amiss. 



130 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 



BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY 
FROM SEA-BATHING, 

IN THE YEAR 1789. 

O Sov'reign of an isle renown'd 

For undisputed sway 
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound 

Her navies wing their way. 

With juster claim she builds at length 

Her empire on the sea, 
And well may boast the waves her strength 

Which strength restored to Thee. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

HOR. LIB. I. ODE IX. 

Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum 
Soracte. 

See'st thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, 
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow, 
The streams congeal'd forget to flow, 

Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 

Of fuel on the hearth ; 
Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile 
With seasonable mirth. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 131 
This be our part — let Heav'n dispose the rest 

If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, 
That now wage war upon the foamy deep, 

And gentle gales spring from the balmy West. 
E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may, 

When to-morrow's past away, 

We at least shall have to say, 

We have liv'd another day ; 
Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er, 
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more. 



HOR. LIB. I. ODE 38. 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus. 

Boy, I hate their empty shows, 

Persian garlands I detest, 
Bring not me the late-blown rose, 

Ling'ring after all the rest : 

Plainer myrtle pleases me, 

Thus out-stretch'd beneath my vine 
Myrtle more becoming thee, 

Waiting witli thy master's wine. 



132 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

English SappJdcks have been attempted, hut with httle 
success, because in our language we have no certain 
rules by which to determine the quantity. The follow- 
ing versio-fi was made merely in the loay of experi- 
ment how far it might be possible to imitate a Latin 
Sapphick in English, wiUtout any attention to that cir 
cumstance. 



HOR. B. I. ODE 3a 

Boy ! I detest all Persian fopperies 
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting, 
Ta^ not thyself with any search, I charge thee, 
Where latest roses linger. 

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily^ 
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking 
Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 



HOR. LIB. II. ODE 16. 

Otium Divos rogat in patenti. 

Ease is the weary merchant's pray'r, 
Who ploughs by night the ^gean flood, 

When neither moon nor stars appear^ 
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. 

For ease the Mede with quiver graced, 
For ease the Thracian hero sighs, 

Delightful ease all pant to taste, 
A blessing which no treasure buys 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

For neither gold can lull to rest, 
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off, 

The tumults of a troubled breast, 
The cares that haunt a gilded roof. 

Happy the man, whose table shows 
A few clean ounces of old plate ; 

No fear intrudes on his repose, 
No sordid wishes to be great. 

Poor short-liv'd things, what plans we lay ! 

Ah, why forsake our native home I 
To distant climates speed away : 

For self sticks close where'er we roam. 

Care follows hard ; and soon o'ertakes 
The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed, 

Her destin'd quarry ne'er forsakes, 

Not the wind flies with half her speed. 

From anxious fears, of future ill 

Guard well the cheerful, happy Now ; 

Gild even your sorrows with a smile. 
No blessing is unmix'd below. 

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, 
Thy num'rous flocks around thee graze, 

And the best purple Tyre affords 
Thy robe magnificent displays 

On me indulgent Heav'n bestow'd 
A rural mansion, neat and small , 

This Lyre ; and as for yonder crowd, 
The happiness to hate them all. 
Vol, HL 12 



134 TO THE MEMORY OF DR. Li^OYD 

/ make no apology for the introduction of the fol- 
lowing lines, though 1 have never learned who wrote 
them. Their elegance loill sujiciently recommend them 
to persons of classical taste and erudition, and I shall 
be happy if the English version that they have received 
from me, be found not to dishonour them. Affection 
for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate, 
alone prompted me to this endeavour. 

W. COWPER. 



VERSES 



THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD, 

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER 
HIS Di:CEASE. 

Abut senex ! periit senex amabilis ! 

Quo non fuit jucundior. 
Lugete vos, eetas quibus maturior 

Senem colendum praestitit, 
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus 

Firmoque fretus pectore, 
Florentiori vos juventute excolens 

Cura fovebat patria. 
Seu quando fractus, jamque donatus rude, 

Vultu sed usque blandulo, 
Miscere gaudebat suas facetias 

His annuls leporibus. 
Vixit probus, puraque simplex indole, 

Blandisque comis moribus, 



TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD. 135 

Et dives asqua mente — charus omnibus, 

Unius* auctus raunere. 
Ite tituli ! meritis beatioribus 

Aptate iaudes debitas ! 
Nee invidebat ille, si quibus favens 

Fortuna plus arriserat. 
Placide senex ! levi quiescas cespite, 

Etsi superbum nee vivo tibi 
Pecus sit inditum, nee mortuo 

Lapis notatus nomine. 



THE SAME IN ENGLISH. 

Our good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, 

Whose social eonverse was, itself, a feast. 

O ye of riper age, who recollect 

How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 

Both in the firmness of his better day. 

While yet he ruled you with a father's sway. 

And when, impair 'd by time, and glad to rest. 

Yet still with looks in mild complacence dress'd, 

He took his annual seat, and mingled here 

His sprightly vein with yours — now drop a tear. 

In morals blameless as in manners meek, 

He knew no wish that he might blush to speak, 

But, happy in whatever state below, 

And riclier than the rich in being so, 

Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed 

At length from One,t as made him rich indeed. 

* He was usher and uiider-masler of Westminister near fifty 
years, aud retired from his occupation when he was near se- 
venty, witli a handsome pension from the king. 

t See the note in the Latin copy. 



136 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

Hence then, ye titles, hence, not watnted here 
Go, gjarnish merit in a brighter sphere, 
The brows of those whose more exalted lot 
He could congratulate, but envied not. 

Light lie the turf, good Senior ! on thy breast. 
And, tranquil as thy mind was, be thy rest ! 
Tho' living, thou hadst more desert than fame, 
And not a stone, now, chronicles thy name. 



TO MRS. TmiOCKMORTON, 

ON 
HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODBy 

AD LIBRUM SUUM. 
[February, 1790,] 

Maria, could Horace have guess'd 

What honour awaited his ode, 
To his own little volume address'd, 

The honour which you have bestow'd. 
Who have traced it in characters here 

So elegant, even, and neat. 
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 

And sneer, if you please, he had said, 

A nymph shall hereafter arise. 
Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies. 
Shall dignity give to my lay, 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say. 

Nothing ever was written bo well. 



(137^ 



INSCRIPTION 

Ww a Stone erected at the Sowing of a Grove of Oaks 
at Chillington, the seat of T. Giffordf Esq. 

1790. 

[June, 1790.] 

Other stones the era texl, 
When some feeble mortal fell ', 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of Earth. 

Which shall longest brave the sky, 
Storm and frost — these oaks or I ? 
Pass an age or two away, 
I must moulder and decay, 
But the years that crumble me 
Shall invigorate the tree, 
Spread its branch, dilate its size, 
Lift its summit to the skies. 

Cherish honour, virtue, truth, 
So slialt thou prolong thy youth. 
Wanting these, however fast 
Man be fix'd and form'd to last 
He is lifeless even now, 
Stone at heart, and cannot grow, 
12 • 



(138) 
ANOTHER, 

For a Stone erected on a similar occasion at the same 
place in the following year. 

[June, 1790.] 

Reader ! Behold a monument 

That asks no sigh or tear, 
Though it perpetuate the event 

Of a great burial here. 

Anno 1791. 



HYMN, 

FOR THE USE OF THE 

SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY. 

[July, 1790.] 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r, 

In heaven thy dwelling-place. 
From infants, made the publick care, 

And taught to seek thy face ! 

Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day ; 

And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy Sabbath more. 

Thanks that we hear — but oh impart 

To each desire sincere. 
That we may listen with our heart, 

And learn as well as hear 



STANZAS. 139 

For if vain thoughts the inmds engage 

Of elder far than we, 
What hope that at our heedless age 

Our minds should e'er be free! 

Much hope, if thou our spirits take 

Under thy gracious sway, 
Who canst the wisest wiser make, 

And babes as wise as they. 

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 

A sun that ne'er declines ; 
Arid be thy mercies show'r'd on those 

Who plac'd us where it shines.* 



STANZAS 



On the late indecent Liherties taken with the Remains 
of the great Milton — Jinno 1780. 

{August, 1790.] 

" Me too, perchance, in future days. 

The sculptur'd stone shall show 
With Paphian myrtle or with bays 

Parnassian on my brow. 

* Note by the Editor. This Hymn was written at the re- 
quest of the Rev. James Bean, then Vicar of Olncy, to be 
«ung by the children of the Sunday Schools of that town, 
after a Charity Sermon, preached at the Parish Church for 
iheir benefit, on Sunday, July 31 , 1790. 



140 STANZAS. 

But I, or ere that season come, 

Escaped from every care, 
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, 

And sleep securely there."* 

So sang, in Roman tone and style, 

The youthful bard, ere long 
Ordain'd to grace his native isle 

With her sublimest song. 

Who then but must conceive disdain, 

Hearing the deed unblest 
Of wretches who have dar'd profane 

His dread sepulchral rest .'' 

Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones 

Where Milton's ashes lay, 
That trembled not to grasp his bones, 

And steal his dust away ! 

O ill-requited bard ! neglect 

Thy living worth repaid, 
And blind idolatrous respect 

As much affronts the dead. 

* Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus 
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri 
Fronde comas. . .At ego secura pace quiescam. 

Milton in Ma»so 



( HI > 



TO MRS. KING 



Her kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work Couri' 
terpane of her oion making. 

[August 14, 1790.] 

Thk Bard, if e'er he feel at all, 
Must sure be quicken'd by a call 

Both on his heart and head, 
To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
And kindness of a lady fair, 

Who deigns to deck his bed. 

A bed like this, in ancient time, 
On Ida's barren top sublime, 

(As Homer's Epick shows) 
Compos'd of sweetest vernal flow'rs, 
Without the aid of sun or show'rs, 

For Jove and Juno rose. 

Less beautiful, however gay, 

Is that which in the scorching day 

Receives the weary swain 
Who, laying his long sithe aside. 
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, 

Till rous'd to toil again. 

What labours of the loom I see ! 
Looms numberless have groan'd for me 

Should ev'ry maiden come 
To scramble for the patch that bears 
The impress of the robe she wears, 

The bell would toll for some. 



142 ANECDOTE OF HOMER. 

And oh , what havock would ensue ! 
This bright display of ev'ry hue 

All in a moment fled I 
As if a storm should strip the bow'rs 
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow' 

Each pocketing a shred. 

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle fair 
Who will not come to peck me bare 

As bird of borrow'd feather, 
And thanks, to One, above them all, 
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall, 

Who put the whole together. 



[October, 1790.] 

* Certadn Potters, while they were busied in baking their 
ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and having heard 
much said of his wisdom, called to him, and promised him a 
present of their commodity, and of such other things as they 
could afford, if he would sing to them, when he sang as fol« 
lows I 

Pay me my price, Potters ! and I will sing 
Attend, O Pallas ! and with lifted arm 
Protect their oven ; let the cups and all 
The sacred vessels blacken well, and baked 
With good success, yield them both fair renown 

* Note by the Editor. JVo title is prefixed to this 
piece : but it appears to be a translation of one of the 
'E.mYpafifiaTa of Homer, called 'O Kafiivos, or the Fur- 
nace. The prefatory lines are from the Greek of He- 
rodotus, or whoever was the Author of the Life of 
Homer ascribed to him 



ANECDOTE OF HOMER. 143 

And profit, whether in the market sold, 

Or street, and let no strife ensue between us. 

But, oh, ye Potters ! if with shameless front, 

Ye falsify your promise, then I leave 

No mischief uninvok'd t' avenge the wrong. 

Come Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes come, 

And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread, 

Omodamus, delay ! Fire seize your house, 

May neither house nor vestibule escape. 

May ye lament to see confusion mar 

And mingle the whole labour of your hands, 

And may a sound fill all your oven, such 

As of a horse grinding his provender. 

While all your pots and flagons bounce within. 

Come hither also, daughter of the sun, 

Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs 

Poison themselves, and all that they have made • 

Come also, Chiron, with thy num'rous troop 

Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath 

The club of Hercules, as who escaped. 

And stamp their crockery to dust ; down fall 

Their chimney ; let them see it with their eyes, 

And howl to see the ruin of their art, 

While I rejoice ; and if a potter stoop 

To peep into his furnace, may the fire 

Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men 

Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith. 



(144) 



IN MEMORY 

OF THE LATE 

JOHN THORNTON, ESa 

[J^ovember, 1790.] 

Poets attempt the noblest task thej can, 
Praising the Author of all good in man, 
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost, 
The Dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee, therefore, of commercial £tme, but more 
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. 
Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine, 
As honest, and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
Thee to deplore, were grief mispent indeed ; 
It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And glory for the virtuous, when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled board, 
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford. 
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo 
By virtue sufFer'd combating below ? 
That privilege was thine } Heav'n gave thee means 
T' illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
As midnight, and despairing of a morn, 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good. 
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; 



THE FOUR AGES. 145 

Av'rice, in thee, was the desire of wealth 
By rust unperishable or by stealth, 
And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
On application to its noblest end, 
Thine had a value in the scales of Heav'n, 
Surpassing all that mine or mint had giv'n. 
And, though God made thee of a nature prone 
To distribution boundless of thy own, 
And still by motives of religious force 
Tmpell'd thee more to that heroick course, 
Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
Nice in its choice, and of a tempered heat ; 
And though in act unwearied, secret still, 
As in some solitude the summer rill 
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, 
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. 

Such was thy Charity ; no sudden start, 
After long sle3p of oassion in the heart, 
But steadfast principle, and, in its kind, 
Of close relation to th' eternal mind. 
Traced easily to its true source above, 
To him, whose works bespeak his nature. Love. 

Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 



THE FOUR AGES. 

[A brief fragment of an extensive projected Poem. 
[May, 1791.] 
" I could be well content, allow'd the use 
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd 
From worn-out follies, now acknowledg'd such, 
To recommence life's trial in the hope 
Of fewer errours, on a second proof" 
Vol. III. 13 



146 THE FOUR AGES. 

Thus, while gray evening lull'd the wind, and call'd 
Fresh odours from the shubb'ry at my side. 
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mus'd, 
And held accustom'd conference with my heart, 
When, from within it, thus a voice replied. 
" Couldst thou in truth ? and art thou taught at length 
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past ? 
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, 
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far 
Than opportunity vouchsaf 'd to err 
With less excuse, and haply, worse effect ?" 

I heard, and acquiesced ; then to and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck. 
My grav'Ily bounds, from self to human kind 
I pass'd, and next consider'd what is Man ? 

P 
Knows he his origin ? can he ascend i 

By reminiscence to his earliest date ? i i 

Slept he in Adam ? and in those from him j | 

Through num'rous generations, till he found 1 1 

At length his destin'd moment to be born ? I ! 

Or was he not, till fashion"d in the womb ? j 

Deep myst'ries both ! which schoolmen much have toil'd 

To unriddle, and have left them myst'ries still. 

It is an evil incident to man, 
And of the v/orst, that unexplor'd he leaves 
Truths useful and attainable with ease, 
To search forbidden deeps, where myst'ry lies 
Not to be solv'd, and useless if it might. 
Myst'ries are food for angels ; they digest 
With ease, and find them nutriment ; but man, 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
His manna from the ground, or starve and die. 



THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 



[May, 1791.] 

Two nymphsj both nearly of an age, 
Of num'rous charms possess'd, 

A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, 
Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete 

Had both alike been mild . 
But one, although her smile was sweet, 

Frown'd oftener than she smil'd. 

And in her humour, when she frown'd 
Would raise her voice and roar, 

And shake with fury to the ground 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast, 
From all such frenzy clear, 

Her frowns were seldom known to last, 
And never prov'd severe. 

To poets of renown in song 

The nymphs referr'd the cause, 

Who, strange to tell, all judg'dit wrong, 
And gave misplaced applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, 
The flippant and the scold, 

And though she chang'd her mood so oft, 
That failing left untold. 



148 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, 

Or so resolv'd to err — 
In short, the charms her sister had 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the god whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call, 
Was heard, one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all. 

" Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, 
" My favourite nymph to slight. 

Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
With June's undoubted right. 

" The Minx shall for your folly's sake 

Still prove herself a shrew, 
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 

And pinch your noses blue. 



TRANSLATIONS 



OP THE 



LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS 



OP 



MILTON. 

IBegun, September, 1791 . Finished, March, 1792.] 
13* 



( 150 ) 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE LATIN POEMS, 



ELEGIES. 



ELEGY I. 
TO CHARLES DIODATI. 

At length, my friend, the far sent letters come ! 

Charged with tliy kindness, to their destin'd home ; { 

They come, at length, from Deva's Western side ! 

Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. j 

Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, j 

Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, j 

And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, \ 

Must seek again so soon his wonted home. i 

I well content, where Thames with refluent tide, ! 

My native city laves, meantime reside. 
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impel 
To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. 
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, 
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 151 
'Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats disdain, 
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. 
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent, 
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment, 
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuso 
A name expressive of the lot I choose. 
I would, that, exiled to the Pontick shore, 
Rome's hapless bard had suf er'd nothing more. 
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, 
And Virgil ! thou hadst won but second praise . 
For here I woo the muse ; with no control. 
And here my books — my life— absorb me whole 
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep, 
The winding theatre's majestick sweep , 
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits 
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits ; 
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir 
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there, 
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, 
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws. 
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire. 
And, artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire. 
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove, 
"What love is, know not, yet unknowmg, love. 
Or, if impassion'd Tragedy wield high 
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly 
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, 
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief. 
At times, e'en bitter tears ! yield sweet relief. 
As when from bliss untasted torn away, 
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day, 
Or when the ghost, sent back to shades below. 
Fills the assassin's heart Avith vengeful wo. 
When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords, 
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. 
Nor always city-pent, or pent at home, 
I dwell ) but, when spring calls me forth to roam 



152 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Expatiate in our proud suburban shades 

Of branching elm, that never sun pervades. 

Here many a virgin troop I may descry, 

Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 

Oh forms divine ! Oh looks that might inspire 

E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire ' 

Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, 

Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies. 

Necks vv^hiter than the ivory arm bestowed 

By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road ! 

Bright locks. Love's golden snare ! these falling low 

Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 

Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r 

Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower ! 

Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th' embraco 

Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place ! 

Give place, ye turbann'd fair of Persia's coast ! 

And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast ! 

Submit, ye nymphs of Greece ! ye, once the bloom 

Of llion ! and all ye, of haughty Rome. 

Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains 

Redundant, and still live in classick strains ! 

To British damsels beauty's palm is due, 

Aliens ! to follow them is fame for you. 

Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, 

Whose towering front the circling realm commands, 

Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see 

In all the earth, but it abounds in thee. 

The virgin multitude that dail}'^ meets, 

Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, 

Out-numbers all her train of starry fires, 

With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. 

Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves, 

With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, 

Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more, 

Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore. 

But lest the sightless boy enforce my stay, 

I leave these happy walls, wliile yet I may. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 153 

Immortal Moly shall secure my heart 

From all the sorc'ry of Circaean art, 

And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools 

To face once more the warfare of the schools. 

Meantime accept this trifle ! rhymes though few, 

Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true. 



ELEGY 11. 



DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE 
AT CAMBRIDGE. 

Composed by Milton in the 1 Itli year of his age 

Thee, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear, 
Minerva's flock long time was wont t' obey, 

Although thyself an herald, famous here, 

The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd away. 

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns 

To spare the ofiice, that himself sustains. 

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd 

By Leda's paramour in ancient time. 
But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, 

Or ^son-like, to know a second prime. 
Worthy, for whom some goddess shall have won 
New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. 

Commission'd to convene, witli Jiasty call. 

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou 
stand ! 

So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, 

Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command ! 



154 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

And so Eurybates, when he address'd 
To Peleus' son, Atrides' proud behest. 

Dread queen of sepulchres ! whose rig'rous laws 
And watchful eyes, run through the realms below. 

Oh oft too adverse to Minerva's cause ! 
Too often to the muse not less a foe ! 

Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim 

Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its shame 

Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'ry eye, 

All ye disciples of the muses, weep ! 
Assembling, all, in robes of sable die, 

Around his bier, lament his endless sleep ! 
And let complaining elegy rehearse, 
In every school, her sweetest, saddest verse. 



ELEGY III. 



THE DEATH 



BISHOP OF WINCHESTER. 

Composed in the Author's 17th year. 

Silent I sat, dejected, and alone, 

Making, in thought, the publick woes my own, 

When, first, arose the image in my breast 

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest ! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 155 

How death, his funral torch and sithe in hand, 

Entering the lordliest mansions of the land 

Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low, 

And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow. 

I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair, 

Too soon to ashes turn'd, and empty air ! 

The heroes next, wliom snatch'd into the skies. 

All Belgia saw, and followed with her sighs, 

But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, 

Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast ! 

Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said ; 

" Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the dead ' 

Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield 

To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field, 

That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, 

And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine. 

That oaks themselves, although the running rill 

Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will, 

That all the winged nations, even those. 

Whose heav'n-directed flight the future shows, 

And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray. 

And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey. 

Ah envious I arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin'd ! 

Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind .'' 

Why take delight with darts, that never roam. 

To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home .?" 

While thus 1 mournM the star of evening stood, 
Now newly ris'n above the western flood, 
And Phoebus, from his morning-goal, again 
Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. 
I wish'd repose, and, on my couch declin'd, 
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd ; 
When — Oh for words to paint what I beheld ! 
I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, 
Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light 
Like that of sun-rise on the mountain heiufht : 



156 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Flowers over all the field, of every hue 
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. 
Nor Chloris, with whom am'rous Zephyrs play, 
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. 
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd 
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold. 
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flow'rs, 
With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs. 
Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er 
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore. 

While I, that splendour, and the mingled shade 
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd survey'd, 
At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem descending low 
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow 
New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow. 
Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around . 
Attendant angels clap their starry wings. 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings , 
Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, 
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest : 
" Ascend, my son I thy father's kingdom share I 
My son ! henceforth be freed from ev'ry care !" 

So spake the voice, and at its tender close 
With psalt'ry's sound th' angclick band arose. 
Then night retired, and chas'd by dawning day 
The visionary bliss pass'd all away. 
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep, with fond concern ) 
Frequent to me may dronms like this return. 



(157) 



ELEGY IV. 

TO HIS TUTOR, 

THOMAS YOUNG, 

CHAPI.AIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT HAMBURG 

Written in the Author's \Qth year. 

Hence my epistle — skim the deep — fly o'er 
Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonick shore ! 
Haste — lest a friend should grieve for thy delay — 
And the gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way 
1 will myself invoke the king, who binds, 
In his Sicanian echoing vault, the winds. 
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng 
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. 
But rather, to ensure thy happier haste. 
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou may'st ; 
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore 
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore. 

The sands, that line the German coast, descried, 
To opulent Hamburga turn aside ! 
So called, if legendary fame be true, 
From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew ! 
There lives, deep-learn'd and primitively just, 
A faithful steward of his christian trust, 
My friend, and favourite inmate of my heart, 
That now is forced to want its better part ! 
What mountains now, and seas, alas ! how wide ' 
From me this other, dearer self divide ; 
Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth 
To the prime spirit of the attick j^outh ! 

Vol. III. 14 



158 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON 
Dear as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son, 
His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won ! 
Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine 
In young Achilles" eyes, as he in mine. 
First led by liim thro' sweet Aonian sliade, 
Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survcy'd , 
And favour 'd by the muse whom I implor'd, 
Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd. 
But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd 
To Aries, lias new ting'd his fleece with gold, 
And Chloris twice has dres«"d the meadows gay, 
And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away, 
Since last delighted on his looks I hung. 
Or my ear drank the musick of his tongue ; 
Fly, therefore, and surpass tiie tempest's speed ; 
Aware thyself, that there is urgent need ! 
Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see 
Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee. 
Or turning, page by page, with studious look, 
Some bulky father, or God's holy book. 
Or minist'ring (which is his weightiest care) 
To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly faro, 
Give him, whatever his employment be, 
Such gratulation as he claims from me ! 
And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek, 
Addressing him, forget not thus to speak ! 

" If, corapass'd round with arms, thou cr>)if-t attend 
To verse, verse greets thee from a distant fiioud. 
Long due, and late, I left the English shore ; 
But make me welcome for that cause the more I 
Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer 
The slow epistle came, though late, sincere 
But wherefore this .■' why palliate I the deea 
For which the culprit's self could hardly plead ? 
Self-charged, and self-condemn'd, his proper part 
He feels neglected, with an aching heart : 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 159 

But thou forgive — delinquents, who confess, 

And pray forgiveness, merit anger less ; 

From timid foes, the lion turns away, 

Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey : 

Even pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare, 

Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer ; 

And heav'n's dread thunderbolt arrested stands 

By a cheap victim, and uplifted hands. 

Long had he wish'd to write, but was withheld, 

And writes at last, by love alone compell'd, 

For fame, too often true, when she alarms, 

Reports thy neighbouring fields a scene of arms ; 

Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd, 

And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepar'd. 

Enyo wastes thy country vvide arcuiid, 

And saturates with blood the tainted ground ; 

Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more. 

But goads his steeds to fields of German gore. 

The ever verdant olive fades and dies, 

And peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies, 

Flies from that earth which justice long had left, 

And leaves the world of its last guard bereft. 

Thus horrour girds thee round. Meantime alone 
Thou dwell'st, and helpless in a soil unknown ; 
Poor and receiving from a foreign hand 
The aid denied thee in thy native land. 
Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more 
Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore ! 
Leav'st thou to foreign care the worthies, giv'n 
By Providence to guide thy steps to Heav'n '' 
His ministers commission'd to proclaim 
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name ! 
Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed. 
In Stygian night to lie for ever dead. 
So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd 
An Bxil'd fugitive from shade to shade, 



160 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

When, flying Ahab, and his fury wife, 
In long Arabian wilds he shelter'd life ; 
So, from Philippi, wander'd forth forlorn 
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn ; 
And Christ himself so left, and trod no more, 
The thankless Gergesenes' forbidden shore. 

But thou take courage ! strive against despair ! 
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care 
Grim war indeed on every side appears, 
And thou art menae'd by a thousand spears ; 
Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend, 
E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend. 
For thee the ^gis of thy God shall hide, 
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side ; 
The same, who vanquish'd, under Sion's tow'rs 
At silent midnight, all Assyria's pow'rs, 
The same who overthrew in ages past, 
Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste ! 
Their king he fill'd, and them with fatal fears. 
By miraick sounds of clarions in their ears. 
Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar, 
Of clashing armour, and the din of war. 

Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted) may 
Still hope, and triumph o'er the evil day ! 
Look forth, expecting happier times to come 
And to enjoy, once more, thy native home ! 



(161) 



ELEGY V. 



APPROACH OF SPRING. 



Written in the Author's 20th Year. 

Time, never \vand"ring from his annual round, 
Bids Zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground ; 
Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, 
And earth assumes her transient youth again. 
Dream I, or also to the spring belong 
Increase of genius, and new pow'rs of song ? 
Spring gives them, and how strange soe'er it seems, 
Impels me now to some harmonious themes. 
Castalia's fountain and the forked hill 
By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill ; 
My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within 
A sacred sound, that prompts me to begin. 
Lo ! Phcabus comes, with his bright hair he blends 
The radiant laurel wreath ; PhabiiS descends ; 
I mount, and, undepress'd by cunib nms clay, 
Through cloudy regions win my ea?v way .; 
Rapt through poetick shadowy haunts I fly : 
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye. 
My spirit searches all the realms of light, 
And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight. 
But this ecstatick trance — this glorious storm 
Of inspiration—what will it perform ? 
Spring claims tlie verse, tliat with his influence glows, 
And shall be paid with what himself bestows. 
14^ 



162 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Thou, veil'd with op'ning foliage, lead'st the throng 
Of feather 'd minstrels, Philomel ! in song ; 
Let us, in concert, to the season sing, 
Civick, and sylvan heralds of the spring ! 

With notes triumphant, spring's approach declare 
To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear ! 
The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains. 
The sun now northward turns his golden reins ; 
Night creeps not now ; yet rules with gentle sway ; 
And drives her dusk}^ horrours swift away ; 
Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain 
Bootes follows his celestial wain ; 
And now the radiant sentinels above, 
Less num'rous, watch around the courts of Jove, 
For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly 
And no gigantick guilt alarms the sky. 
Now haply says some shepherd, while he views, 
Recumbent on a rock, the redd'ning dews, 
This night, this surely, PhcEbus miss'd the fair, 
Who stops his chariot by her am'rous care. 
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow, 
Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow , 
Resigns her beams, and glad to disappear, 
Blesses his aid, M^ho shortens her career. 
Come — Phcfibus cries — Aurora come — too late 
Thou ling'rest slumb'ring v/ith thy wither'd mate * 
Leave him, and to Hymettu's top repair ! 
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. 
The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays. 
But mounts, and driving rapidly, obeys. 
Earth now desires thee, Phoebus ! and t' engage 
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age ; 
Desires thee, and deserves ; for who so sweet. 
When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat ? 
Her breath imparts to ev'ry breeze that blows, 
Arabia's harvest, and the Paphiau rose. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 16r 

Her lofty front she diadems around 

With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd : 

Her dewy locks, with various flow'rs new-blown, 

She interweaves, various, and all her own. 

For Proserpine, in such a wreath attir'd, 

Tasnarian Dis himself with love inspir'd. 

Fear not, lest, cold and coy^ the nymph refuse I 

Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs, sues ; 

Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, 

And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. 

Now, unendow'd and indigent, aspires. 

The am'rcus Earth to engage thy warm desires, 

But, rich in balmy drugs, assist thy claim. 

Divine Physician ! to that glorious name, 

If splendid recompense, if gifts can move 

Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,) 

She offers all the wealth her mountains hide, 

And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. 

How oft, when headlong from the heav'nly steep, 

She sees thee playing in the \vestern deep. 

How oft she cries — " Ah Phojbus I why repair 

Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there ! 

Can Tethys win thee .? wherefore shouldst thou lave 

A face so fair in her unpleasant Vv'ave r 

Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose 

To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews. 

The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest ; 

Come, lay thy evening glories on m}' breast. 

And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose 

Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose I 

No fears I feel like Semele to die. 

Nor let thy burning wheels approach too nigh, 

For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest 

And lay thy evening glories on my breast ?" 

Thus breathes the wanton earth her ani'rous flame, 
And all her countless offspring feel tlic same ; 



164 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

For Cupid now through every region strays, 

Bright'ning his faded fires with solar rays, 

His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound, 

And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound ; 

Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried, 

Nor even Vesta at her altar-side ; 

His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, 

And seems sprung newly from the deep again. 

Exulting youtlis the Hymeneal sing, 

"With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys, ring 

He, new-attired, and by the season dress'd, 

Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest. 

Now, many a golden-cinctur'd virgin roves 

To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 

All wish, and each alike, some fav'rite youth 

Hers in the bonds of Hymeneal truth. 

Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds agam, 

Nor Phillis w^ants a song, that suits the strain. 

With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere, 

And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear ; 

Jove feels himself the season, sports again 

With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train. 

Now too the Satyrs, in the dusk of eve, 

Their mazy dance through flow'ry meadows weave 

And neither god nor goat, but both in kind, 

Silvanus wreath'd with cypress, skips behind, 

The Dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells 

To roam the banks, and solitary dells ; 

Pan riots now ; and from his amorous chafe 

Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe, 

And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize, 

Li chase of some enticing Oread, flies ; 

She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound, 

And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. 

Our shades entice th' Immortals from above, 

And some kind pow'r presides o'er every grove ; 

And long, ye pow'rs, o'er every grove preside, 

For all is safe, and bliss, where ve abide ! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 165 
Return, O Jove ! the age of gold restore — 
Why choose to dwell where storms and thunders roar ? 
At least, thou, PJioebus ! moderate thy speed ! 
Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed, 
Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole 
Too soon to Night's encroaching; long control ! 



ELEGY VI. 
TO CHARLES DIODATI, 

Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the 
Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his 
verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account 
of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which 
would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished. 

With no rich viands overcharg'd, I send 
Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd 

friend ; 
But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away 
From what she loves, from darkness into day ? 
Art thou desirous to be told how well 
I love thee, and in verse ? verse cannot tell . 
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move , 
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love. 
How pleasant, in tny lines described, appear 
December's harmless sports, and rural cheer ! 
French spirits kindling with cerulean fires, 
And all such gambols as the time inspires ' 

Think not that wine against good verse offends , 
The muse and Bacchus have been always friends, 



166 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Nor Pho3bus blushes sometimes to be found 
With ivy, than with laurel, crovvn'd. 
The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song 
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng ; 
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air 
Sing sweetly — why ? no vine would flourish there. 
What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse ? 
Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews. 
Pindar with Bacchus glows — his every line 
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine, 
While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies, 
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. 
The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays 
So sweet in Glycera's, and Chloe's praise. 
Now to the plenteous feast and mantling bowl 
Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul ; 
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow, 
And casks not wine alone, but verse bestow. 
Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend, 
Whom BacchuS; and whom Ceres, both befriend. 
What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet. 
In which these triple powers so kindly meet ! 
The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought, 
And touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught, 
In tap'stried halls, high roof'd, the sprightly lyre 
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. 
If dull repletion fright the Muse away, 
Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay ; 
And, trust me, while the iv'ry keys resound, 
Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around, 
Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame, 
Shall animate at once thy glowing frame, 
And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast, 
By love and musick's blended pow'rs possess'd, 
For num'rous power's like Elegy befriend. 
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend ; 
Her Bacchus, Ceros, Venus, all approve. 
And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 167 
Hence to such bards we grant the copious use 
Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice. 
But they who demi-gods and heroes praise, 
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days, 
Who now the counsels of high heaven explore, 
Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar, 
Simply let these, like him of Sanios live, 
Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give ; 
In beechen goblets let their bev'rage shine, 
Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine ! | 

Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure 
From stain licentious, and in manners pure, i 

Pure as the priest, when rob'd in white he stands, 
The fresh lustration ready in his hands. 
Thus Limus liv'd, and thus, as poets write, 
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight I ! j 

Thus exil'd Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace, i| 

Melodious tamer of the savage race ! i 

! I 

Thus train'd by temp'rance. Homer led, of yore. 
His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore. 
Through magick Circe's monster-peopled reign, 
And shoals insidious with the syren train ; 
And through the realms, where grizzly spectres dwell, 
Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell ; 
For these are sacred bards, and, from above. 
Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove ! 

Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine ear,) 
Wouldst thou be told my occupation here .'' 
The promised King of peace employs my pen, 
Th' eternal cov'nant made for guilty men. 
The new-born Deity with infant cries 
Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies; 
The hymning angels, and the herald star, 
That led the Wise, who sought him from afar. 
And idols on their own unhallow'd shore 
Dash'd, at his birth, to be rever'd no more ! 



1C8 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse : 
The dawn of that blest day inspir'd the verse ; 
Verse, that reserv'd m secret shall attend 
Thy candid voice, my critick, and my friend 



ELEGY VIL 



Composed in the Author's 19</t year. 

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires, 
That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires, 
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts, 
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts. 
" Go, child," I said, " transfix the tim'rous dove ! 
An easy conquest suits an infant love ; 
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be 
Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee ! 
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind ? 
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind." 

The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire, 
(None kindles sooner) burn'4 with double fire. 

It was the spring, and newly risen day 
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May ; 
My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light, 
Still sought the shelter of retiring night, 
When love approach'd in painted plumes array'd, 
Th' insidious god his rattling darts betray'd, 
Nor less his infant features and the sly. 
Sweet intimations of his threat 'ning eye. 
Such the Sigeian boy is seen above, 
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove ) 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. IG'J 
Such he, on whom the nymphs bcslovv'cl their charms, 
Hylas, who perish 'd in a Naiad's arms, 
Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire, 
And added threats, not destitute of fire. 
" My power," he said, " by others' pain alone, 
'Twere best to learn : now learn it by thy own I 
With those, who feel my power, that pow'r attest ! 
And in thy anguish be my sway confess'd ! 
I vanquish 'd PhoBbus, though returning vain 
From this new triumph o'er the Python slain, 
And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he 
Will yield the prize of archery to me. 
A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped, 
Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled ; ■ 
Less true th' expert Cydonian, and less true 
The youth, whose shaft his latent Procris slew. 
Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend, 
By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend. 
At me should Jove himself a bolt design, 
His bosom first should bleed transfix'd by mine. 
But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain, 
Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain, 
Thy Muse, vain youth ! shall not thy peace ensure, 
Nor Phoebus' serpent yield the wound a cure." 

He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air. 
Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair. 

That thus a child should bluster in my ear, 
Frovok'd my laughter, more than mov'd my fear, 
I shunn'd not, therefore, publick haunts, but stray 'd 
Careless in city, or suburban shade ; 
And ])assing, and repassing, nymphs, that mov'd 
^Vith grace divine, beheld where'er I rov'd. 
Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze, 
As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays ; 
By no grave scruples check'd I freely ey'd 
The dang'rous show : rash youth my only guide j 

Vol. in. 1,3 



170 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

And many a look of many a fair unknown 

Met full unable to control my own. 

But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,) 

One — Oh how far superiour to the rest ! 

What lovely features ! such the Cyprian queen 

Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien. 

The very nymph was she, v;hom when I dar'd 

His arrows, Love, had even then prepar'd ! 

Nor was himself remote, nor unsupply'd 

With torch well-trimm'd and quiver at his side ; 

Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now. 

Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow, 

And with a thousand wounds from ev'ry part 

Pierc'd, and transpierced, my undefended heart, 

A fever, new to me, of fierce desire, 

Now seiz'd my soul, and I was all on fire, 

But she, the while, whom only I adore, 

Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more. 

In silent sadness I pursue my way ; 

I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay. 

And while I follow her in thought, bemoan 

With tears, my soul's delight so quickly flown. 

When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast, 

So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost : 

And so Oeclides, sinking into night, 

From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light. 

Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, 
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain .'' 
Oh could I once, once more behold the fair, 
Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear, 
Perhaps she is not adamant, w'ould show 
Perhaps some pity at my tale of wo 
Oh inasupicious flame — 'tis mine to prove 
A matchless instance of disastrous love. 
Ah spare me, gentle pow'r ! — If such thou be, 
Let not thy deeds, and nature, disagree. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 171 
Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine 
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine. 
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts: 
Now own thee sov'reign of all human hearts. 
Remove ! no — grant me still this raging wo ! 
Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know 
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see 
One destin'd mine) at once both her and me. 

Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days, 
By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise, 
Studious, yet indolent, and urg'd by youth. 
That worst of teachers ! from the ways of truth ; 
Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r. 
To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his pow'r. 
Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame suppress'd, 
A frost continual settled on my breast. 
Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see, 
And Venus dreads a Diomede in me 



EPIGRAMS. 



ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. 



Praise in old time the rage Prometheus won, 
Who stole ethereal radiance from the sun ; 
But greater he, whose bold invention strove 
To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove. 



[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Trea- 
son I have not translated, both because the matter of 
them is unpleasant, and because they are written with 
an asperity, which, however it might be warranted in 
Milton's days, would be extremely unseasonable now.] 



( 172 ) 



TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.* 

Another Leonora once inspir'd 
Tasso, with fatal love to phrensy fir'd ; 
But how much happier liv'd he now, were he, 
Pierc'd with whatever pangs for love of thee ! 
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, 
With Adriana's lute of sound divine. 
Fiercer than Pentheus, though his eye might roll, 
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul, 
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer 
His senses wandering in a blind career ; 
And sweetly breathing through his wounded breast. 
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest. 



TO THE SAME. 

Naples, too credulous, ah ! boast no more 
The sweet-voic'd Siren buried on thy shore, 
That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave 
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidick grave, 
For still she lives, but has exchang'd the hoarse 
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, 
"Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains 
Of niagick song, both gods and men detains. 

* I have translated only two of the three poetical compli- 
ments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far supe- 
riour to what I have omitted. 



( 173 ) 
THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. 



A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court, 
Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort, 
That he, displeas'd to have a part alone, 
Remov'd the tree, that all might be his own 
The tree, too old to travel, though before 
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. 
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void, 
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd, 
And '' Oh," he cried, " that I had liv'd content 
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant ! 
My av'rice has expensive prov'd to me. 
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree." 



CHRISTIANA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, 



CROMWELL'S PICTURE. 

Christiana, maiden of heroick mien I 
Star of the north ! of northern stars the queen 
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how 
The iron casque still chafes my vet'ran brow, 
While following fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil 
The dictates of a hnrdy people's will. 
But soften'd, in thy sight, my looks appear. 
Not to all Queens or Kings alike severe. 
15* 



( 174) 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, 

A PHYSICIAN. 

Learn, je nations of the earth, 
The condition of your birth, 
Now be taught your feeble state ! 
Know that all must yield to fate ! 

If the mournful rover, Death, 

Say but once — " resign your breath !" 

Vainly of escape you dream. 

You must pass the Stygian stream. 

Could the stoutest overcome 
Death's assault, and baffle doom, 
Hercules had both withstood 
Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood. 

Ne'er had Hector prcss'd the plain 
By a trick of Pallas slain, 
Nor the chief to Jove allied 
By Achilles' phantom died. 

Could enchantments life prolong. 
Circe sav'd by magick song, 
Still had liv'd ; an equal skill 
Had preservVl Medea still. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 175 

Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a pow'r 
To avert man's destin'd hour, 
Learn'd Machoan should have known 
Doubtless to avert his own. 

Chiron had surviv'd the smart 
Of the Hydra-tainted dart, 
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, 
Foil'd by Asclepiades. 

Thou too, sage ! of whom forlorn 
Helicon and Cirrha mourn. 
Still hadst fiU'd thy princely place 
Regent of the gowned race, 

Hadst advanc'd to higher fame 
Still, thy much-ennobled name, 
Nor in Charon's skiff explor'd 
The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. 

But resentful Proserpine, 
Jealous of thy skill divine, 
Snapping short thy vital thread, 
Thee too number'd with the dead. 

Wise and good ! untroubled be 
The green turf that covers thee ." 
Thence, in gay profusion, grow 
All the sweetest flow'rs that blow 

Plato's consort bid thee rest ! 
-3iacus pronounce thee blest : 
To her home thy shade consign .' 
Make Elysium ever thine ! 



(176) 



DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY. 

Written in the Author's 17th year. 

My lids with grief were tumid yet, 
And still my sullied cheek was wet 
With briny dews, profusely shed 
For venerable Winton dead : 
When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound, 
Alas ! are ever truest found, 
The news through all our cities spread 
Of yet another mitred head 
By ruthless fate to death consign'd, 
Ely, the honour of his kmd ! 

At once, a storm of passion heav'd 
My boiling bosom, much I griev'd, 
But more I rag'd at ev'ry breath 
Devoting Death himself to death. 
With less revenge did Naso teem, 
When hated Ibis was his theme ; 
With less, Archilochus, denied 
The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride. 

But lo ! while thus I execrate, 
Incens'd the minister of fate, 
Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, 
Wafted on the gale I hear. 

" Ah, much deluded ! lay aside 
Thy threats, and anger misapplied ! 
Art not afraid with sounds like these, 
T' offend, where thou canst not appease f 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 177 
Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus ?) 
The son of Night and Erebus : 
Nor was of fell Eryiinis born 
On ffulfs, where Cliaos rules forlorn- 
But, sent from Gud, his presence leaves, 
To gather home his ripen 'd sheaves, 
To call encumber'd souls away 
From fleshly bonds to boundless day, 
(As when the winged hours excite, 
And summon forth the morning-light) 
And each to convoy to her place 
Before th' Eternal Father's face. 
But net the wicked — them, severe 
Yet just, from all their pleasures here 
He hurries to the realms below, 
Terrifick realms of penal wo ! 
Myself no sooner heard his call. 
Than 'scaping through my prison- wall, 
I bade adieu to bolts and bars. 
And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, 
Like him of old, to whom 'twas giv'n 
To mouni, on fiery wheels, to Heav'n 
Bootes' wagon, slow with cold, 
Appall'd me not ; nor to behold 
The sword, that vast Orion draws, 
Or ev'n the Scorpion's horrid claws, 
Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, 
And, far beneath my feet, descry 
Night's dread goddess, seen with awe, 
Whom her winged dragons draw^ 
Thus, ever wond'ring at my speed, 
Augmented still as I proceed, 
I pass the planetary sphere, 
The Milky Way — and now appear 
Heav'n's crystal battlements, her doo? 
Of massy pearl, and em'rald floor. 



J78 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON 

But here I cease. For never can 
The tongue of once a mortal man 
In suitable description trace 
The pleasures of that happy place j 
Suffice it, that those joys divine 
Are all, and all for ever, mine !" 



NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME. 

Ah, how the human mind wearies herself 
\\ ith her own wand'rings, and, involv'd in gloom 
Impenetrable, speculates amiss ! 
Measuring, in her folly, things divine 
By human ; laws inscrib'd on adamant 
By law3 of man's device, and counsels fix'd 
For ever, by the hours, that pass and die. 

How ! — shall the face of nature then be plough'd 
Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
On the great Parent fix a sterile curse ? 
Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
And, palsy -smitten, shake her starry brows.' 
Shall foul Antiquity with rust and drought, 
And Famine, vex the radiant worlds above ? 
Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf 
The very Heav'ns, that regulate his flight .'' 
And was the Sire of all able to fence 
His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, 
But, through improvident and heedless haste, 
Let slip th' occasion .'' — so then — all is lost — 
And in some future evil hour, yon arch 
Shall crumble, and come thund'ring down, the poles 
Jar in collision, the Olympian king 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 179 
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth 
The terrours of the Gorgon shield in vain, 
Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd 
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of Heav'n. 
Thou also, with precipitated wheels, 
Phcebus ! thy own son's fall shalt imitate. 
With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep 
Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and iiiss 
At the extinction of the lamp of day. 
Then too shall Hsemus, cloven to his base, 
Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills, 
Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immers'd 
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. 

No. The Almighty Father surer laid 
His deep foundations, and providing well 
For the event of all, the scales of Fate 
Suspended, in just equipoise, and bade 
His universal works, from age to age, 
One tenour hold, perpetual, undisturb'd 

Hence the prime mover wheels itself about 
Continual, day by day, and with it bears 
In social measure swift the heav'ns around. 
Not tardier now is Satan than of old. 
Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars, 
Phcebus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows 
Th' effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god 
A downward course, that he may warm the vales j 
But, ever rich in influence, runs his road. 
Sign after sign, through all the heav'nly zone. 
Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star 
From odorif'rous Ind, whose office is 
To gather home betimes th' ethereal flock, 
To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, 
And to discriminate the night and day. 
Still Cynthia's changeful horn v/a.xes, and wanes. 
Alternate, and with arms extended ^-.till 



180 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams, 

Nor have the elements deserted j'et 

Their functions ; thunder, with as loud a stroke 

As erst, smites through the rocks, and scatters them 

The east still howls, still the relentless north 

Invades the shudd'ring Scythian, still he breathes 

The winter, and still rolls the storms along. 

The king of ocean, with his wonted force, 

Beats on Pelorus, o'er the deep is heard 

The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell, 

Nor swim the monsters of the ^gean sea 

In shallows, or beneath diminish'd waves. 

Thou too, thy ancient vegetative pow'r 

Enjoy 'st, O Earth ! Narcissus still is sweet, 

And Phcebus ! still thy favourite, and still 

Thy fa V 'rite Cy there a ! both retain 

Their beauty, nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd 

For punishment of man. with purer gold 

Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the Deep» 

Thus, in unbroken series, all proceeds ; 
And shall, till wide involving either pole, 
And the immensity of yonder heav'n, 
The final flames of destiny absorb 

ne world consum'd in one enormous pyre I 



( 181 ) 



PLATONICK IDEA, 



AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE. 

Ye sister pow'rs, who o'er the sacred groves 
Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, 
Mnemosyne ! and, thou, who in thy grot 
Immense, reclin'd at leisure, hast in charge 
I The archives, and the ord'nances of Jove, 

i And dost record the festivals of heav'n, 

i Eternity ! — ^inform us who is He, 

I That great original by nature chos'n 

; To be the archetype of human kind, 

! Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles 

j Themselves coeval, one, yet ev'ry where, 

i An image of the god, who gave him being ? 

I Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove. 

i He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though 

Of common nature with ourselves, exists 
Apart, and occupies a local home. 
Whether, companion of the stars, he spend 
Eternal ages, roaming at his will 
From sphere to sphere the tenfold heav'ns, or dwell 
On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth, 
Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit 
Among the multitude of souls ordain'd 
To flesh and blood, or whether (as may chance) 
That vast and giant model of our kind 
In some far distant region of this globe 
Sequester'd stalk, with lifted head on high 
O'ertow'ring Atlas, on whose shoulders rest 
The stars, tcrrifick even to the fjods. 
Vol,. III. 16 



182 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Never the Theban seer, whose bhndness prov d 

His best illumination, him beheld 

In secret vision ; never him the son 

Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night 

Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd ; 

Him never knew th' Assyrian priest who yet 

The ancestry of Ninus chronicles, 

And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd; 

Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd 

So deep in myst'ry, to the w^orshippers 

Of Isis show^'d a prodigy like him 

And thou, who hast immortaliz'd the shades 
Of Academus, if the schools receiv'd 
This monster of the fancy first from thee, 
Either recall at once the banish'd bards 
To thy republick, or thyself evinc'd 
A wilder fabulist, go also forth. 



TO HIS FATHER. 



Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breast 

Pour its inspiring influence, and rush 

No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ! 

That, for my venerable Father's sake, 

All meaner themes renounc'd, my muse, on wings 

Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain. 

For thee, my Father ! howsoe'er it please. 

She frames this slender work, nor know I aught, 

That may thy gifts more suitably requite ; 

Though to requite them suitably would ask 

Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 

The meagre stores of verbal gratitude 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON 183 
But, such as I possess, I send thee all, 
This page presents thee in their full amount 
With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought ; 
Nought, sove the riches that from airy dream 
In secret grottos, and in laurel bow'rs, 
I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquir'd. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) 
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
Bespeaks him animated from above. 
The Gods love verse ; the infernal pow'rs themselves 
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Plato and the Shades. 
In verse the Delphick priestess, and the pale 
Tremulous Sybil, make the future known. 
And he who sacrifices on the shrine 
Hangs verse, both when he smites tlie tlireat'ning bull 
And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
To scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there. 
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal now 
Shall be the onlv measure of our being, 
Crowi'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, 
And make the starry firmament resound 
And, even now, the fiery spirit pure 
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself, 
Their mazy dance with melody of verse 
Unutt'rable, immortal, hearing which 
Huge Ophinchus holds his hiss suppress'd, 
Orion soften'd, drops his ardent blade. 
And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. 
Verse grac'd of old the feasts of kings, ere yet 
Luxurious dainties, destin'd to the gulf 
Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere 



184 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON, 

Lyaeus delug'd yet the temp'rate board. 

Then sat the bard a customary guest 

To share the banquet, and, his length of locks 

With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse, 

The characters of heroes, and their deeds, 

To imitation, sang of Chaos old, 

Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search 

Of acorns fall'n, and of the thunderbolt 

Not yet produc'd from Etna's fiery cave. 

And what avails, at last, tune without voice, 

Devoid of matter ? Such may suit perhaps 

The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song 

Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear 

And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone 

Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more, 

To sympathetick tears the ghosts themselves 

He mov'd ; these praises to his verse he owes. 

Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight 
The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain 
And useless, pow'rs by whom inspir'd, thyself 
Art skilful to associate verse with airs 
Harmonious, and to give the human voice 
A thousand modulations, heir b}'^ right 
Indisputable of Arion's fame. 
Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 
Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 
In close affinity, we sympathize 
In social arts, and kijidred studies sweet ? 
Such distribution of himself to us 
Was Phoebus' choice : thou hast thy gift, and I 
Mine also, and between us we receive, 
Father and Son, the whole inspiring God. 

No ! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume 
Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse, 
My father ! for thou never bad'st me tread 
The beaten path, and broad, that lead'st right on 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 185 

To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 

To the insipid clamours of the bar, 

To laws voluminous, and ill observ'd ; 

But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 

My mind with treasure, led'st me far away 

From city-din to deep retreats, to banks 

And streams Aonian : and, with free consent, 

Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 

I speak not now, on more important themes 

Intent, of common benefits, and such 

As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, 

My Father 1 who, when I had open'd once 

The stores of Roman rhetorick, and learn'd 

The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, 

Whose lofty musick grac'd the lips of Jove, 

Thyself didst counsel me to add the flow'rs 

That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smootl 

Italian his degen'rate speech adorns, 

That witnesses his mixture with the Goth ; 

And Palestine's prophetick songs divine 

To sum the whole, whate'er the heav'n contains, 

The earth beneath it, and the air between, 

The rivers and the restless deep may all 

Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish 

Concurring with thy will ; science herself. 

All cloud remov'd, inclines her beauteous head, 

And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart, 

I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. 

Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds, 
That covet it ; what could my Father more ? 
What more could Jove himself, unless he gave 
His own abode, the heav'n, in v/hich he reigns ,' 
More eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his son, had they been safe, 
As they were insecure, who made the boy 
The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule 
The radiant chariot of the day, and bind 
16* 



186 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath. 
I therefore, although last and least, my place 
Among the learned in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the conqu'ror's ivy twines, 
Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
Away, then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away, 
And, Envy, with thy " jealous leer malign !" 
Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth 
Her venom'd tongue at me- Detested foes ! 
Ye all are impotent against my peace, 
For I am privileg'd, and bear my breast 
Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound. 

But thou I ray Father, since to render thanks 
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
Thy liberality, exceeds my power, 
Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts, 
And bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind ! 
Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth, 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope longevity, and to survive 
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
In the oblivious Lethsean gulf, 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
Improve the Fathers of a distant age ! 



(187) 

TO 

SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET 
MUCH INDISPOSED 



The original is written in a measure called Scazon, 
which signifies limping, and the measure is so deno- 
minated, because, though in other respects lambick, it 
terminates with a Spondee, and has consequently a 
more tardy movement. 

The reader will immediately see that this property 
of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English. 



My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along 
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, 
And lik'st that pace, expressive of thy cares, 
Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, 
When, in the dance, she beats, with measur'd tread 
Heav'n's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed ; 
Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine 
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. 
Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er 
From his own nest, on Albion's stormy shore, 
Where Eurus, fiercest of the ^olian band, 
Sweeps, with ungovern'd rage, the blasted land, 
Of late to more serene Ausonia came 
To view her cities of illustrious name. 



183 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

To prove himself a witness of the truth, 

How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. 

Much good, Salsillus I and a body free 

From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, 

Who now endur'st the languor, and the pains, 

That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins, 

Relentless malady ! not mov'd to spare 

By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air ! 

Health, Hebe's sister sent us from the skies. 
And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, 
Pythius, or Paean, or what name divine 
Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine! 
Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills, that meli 
With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt ! 
If aught salubrious in vour confines grow. 
Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's wo, 
That, render'd to the Muse he loves, agam 
He may enchant the meadows with his strain. 
Numa, reclin'd in everlasting ease. 
Amid the shade of dark embow'ring trees. 
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire 
His lov'd iEgeria, shall that strain admire : 
So sooth'd, the tumid Tiber shall revere 
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year. 
Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein, 
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main. 



(189) 

TO 

GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, 

MARQ.UIS OF VILLA. 



MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO. 

Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an 
Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his 
countrymen, for genius, literature, and military ac- 
complishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed 
his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the 
friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among 
the other Princes of his country, in his poem, entitled, 
Gerusalemme Conquistata, book xx. 

Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi, 

Risplende il Manso, 
During the Author's stay at Naples, he received at 
the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and 
civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, 
sent him this poem a short time before his departure 
from that city. 



These verses also to thy praise the Nine, 
Oh Manso ! happy in that theme, design, 
For, Gallus and Msecenas gone, they see 
None such besides, or whom they love as thee ; 
And, if my verse may give the meed of fame, 
Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. 
Already such, it shines in Tasso's page 
(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, 



190 TRAiNSLATlOiNS FROM MILTON. 

And, next, the I\luse consign'd (not unaware 

How high the charge) Marino to thy care, 

Who, singing to the nymphs, Adonis' praise, 

Boasts thee the patron of liis copious lays. 

To thee alone the poet would entrust 

His latest vows, to thee alone his dust; 

And thou with punctual piety hast paid. 

In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade. 

Nor this contented tliee — but lest the grave 

Should aught absorb of theirs which thou conldst 

save. 
All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach 
The life, lot, genius, character of each, 
Eloquent as the Carian sage, who true 
To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. 

I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come 
Chill'd by rude blasts, that freeze my northern home, 
Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim. 
And thine, for Phcebus's sake, a deathless name. 
Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye 
A muse scarce rcar'd beneath our sullen sky. 
Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young, 
To seek in Latium hearers of her song. 
We too, where Thames with his unsullied waves 
The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves, 
Hear oft by night, or, slumb'ring, seem to hear, 
0"er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear, 
And we could boast a Tityrus of yore. 
Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. 

Yes — dreary as we own our Northern clime. 
E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme. 
We too serve Phcebus ', PhcEbus has receiv'd 
(If legends old may claim to be believ'd) 
No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear. 
The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 101 

The fragrant crocus, and to grace his fane, 

Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train ; 

Druids, our native bards in ancient time, 

Who gods and heroes prais'd in hallow'd rhyme ! 

Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround 

Apollo's slirine with hymns of festive sound, 

They name the virgins who arriv'd of yore, 

With British off'rings, on the Delian shore, 

Loxo, from giant Corineus sprung, 

Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung. 

And Hecaerge, with the golden hair, 

All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bosoms bare 

Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime 
Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after-time, 
Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, 
And with an equal flight to fame ascend. 
The world shall hear how Phoebus, and the Nine, 
Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. 
Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain'd to roam 
The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, 
Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door. 
Though Hercules had ventur'd there before. 
But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene 
Of rural peace, cloth'd with perpetual green. 
And thither, oft as respite he requir'd 
From rustick clamours loud, the god retir'd. 
There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclin'd 
At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwin'd, 
Won by his hospitable friend's desire. 
He sooth'd his pains of exile with the lyre. 
Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore 
Nor (Eta felt his load of forests more ; 
The Upland elms descended to the plain, 
And soften'd lynxes wonder 'd at the strain. 

Well may we think. O dear to all above ! 
Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove ; 



192 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

And that Apollo shed his kindliest powT, 

And Maia's son, on that propitious hour, 

Since only minds so born can comprehend 

A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. 

Hence, on thy yet unfaded cheek appears 

The ling'ring freshness of thy greener years ; 

Hence, in thy front and features, we admire 

Nature unwither'd, and a mind entire. 

Oh might so true a friend to me belong, 

So skill'd to grace the votaries of song. 

Should I recajl hereafter into rhyme 

The kings and heroes of my native clime, 

Arthur the chief, who even now prepares. 

In subterraneous being, future wars, 

With all his martial knights, to be restor'd, 

Each to his seat, around the fed'ral board. 

And Oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse 

Our Saxon plund'rers, in triumphant verse ! 

Then, after all, when, with the past content, 

A life I finish, not in silence spent. 

Should he, kind mourner, o er my death -bed bend, 

I shall but need to say — '' Be yet my friend !" 

He, too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe 

To honour me, and with the graceful wreath. 

Or of Parnassus, or the Paphian isle. 

Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while 

Then also, if the fruits of faith endure, 

And virtue's promis'd recompense be sure, 

Born to those seats, to which the blest aspire 

By purity of soul, and virtuous fire. 

These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey 

With eyes illumin'd by celestial day. 

And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, 

Joy in the bright beatitude of Heaven I 



( 193 ) 



DEATH OF DAMON. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbours, had j 

always pursued the same studies, and had, from their | 

earhest days, been united in the closest friendship. ' 

Thyrsis, while travelling for improvement, received i 

intelligence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, j 

returning and finding it true, deplores himself, and his | 

solitary condition, in this poem. i 

By Damon is to be understood Charles Diodati, 
connected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's 
side, in other respects an Englishman ; a youth of un 
common genius, erudition, and virtue. 



Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed, 
Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead. 
And over Bion's long-lamented bier. 
The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,) 
Now through the villas lav'd by Thames, rehearse 1 

The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse, | 

What sighs he heav'd, and how with groans profound 
He made the woods and hollow rocks resound. 
Young Damon dead ; nor even ceas'd to pour 
His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. 

Vol. hi. 17 



194 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, 
And golden harvest twice enriched the year, 
Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air 
The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there j 
For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'd 
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, 
But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn, 
For his flock's sake now hasted to return, 
And when the shepherd had resum'd his seat 
At the elm's root, within his old retreat, 
Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know, 
And, from his hurthen'd heart, he vented thus his wo. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than tiiose of feeding you. 
Alas, what deities shall I suppose 
In heaven, or earth, concern'd for human woes, 
Since, O ray Damon ! tlielr .severe decree 
So soon condemns me to regret of iheo ! 
Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid 
With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade ? 
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, 
And sep'rates sordid from illustrious souls, 
Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign 
A happier lot, with spirits worthy thine ! 

'• Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts ars 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance. 
The wolf first give me a forbidding glance. 
Thou shalt not moulder undeplord, but long 
Thy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue 
To Daphnis fn-st they shall delight to pay, 
And, after him, to thee the votive lay. 
While Pales shall the flocks and p.istu^res love, 
Or Faunas to frequent the field or grove, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 195 
At least, if ancient piety and truth, 
With all the learned labours of thy youth, 
May serve thee aught, or to have left behind 
A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Yes, Damon ! such thy sure reward shall be ; 
But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me .'' 
Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide, 
As thou wast wont, for ever at my side. 
Both when the rugged frost annoy 'd our feet, 
And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat ; 
Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent. 
Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went .'' 
Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day, 
With charming song, who now beguile my way .'' 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts aro 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
In whom shall I confide ? Wliose counsel find 
A balmy med'cine for my troubled mind ? 
Or whose discourse, with innocent delight, 
Shall fill me now, and cheat the wint'ry night, 
While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear, 
And black'ning chestnuts start and crackle there, 
While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, 
And the wind thunders thro' the neighb'ring elm. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts aro 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Or who, when summer suns their summit reach. 
And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt'ring beech. 
When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge. 
And the stretch'd rustick snores beneath the hedge, 



196 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein 
Of Attick wit, thy jests, thy smiles again ? 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs j my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown 
With tangled boughs, I wander now alone, 
Till night descend, while blust'ring wind and show'r 
Beat on my temples through the shattered bow'r. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, 
And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields ? 
My rambling vines, unwedded to the trees, 
Bear shrivell'd grapes, my myrtles fail to please. 
Nor please me more my flocks ; they, slighted turn 
Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
.^gon invites me to the hazel grove, 
Amyntas on the river's bank to rove. 
And young Alphesiboeus to a seat 
Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 
' Here fountains spring — here mossy hillocks rise ; 
Here Zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.' — 
Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, 
I gain the thickets, and escape them all. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts are 
due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well 
The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 197 

For he by chance had noticed my return^) 

' What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern ? 

Ah Thyrsis ! thou art either craz'd with love, 

Or some sinister influence from above ; 

Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue ; 

His leaden shaft oblique has pierc'd thee through ' 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
The nymphs amaz'd, my melancholy see, 
And, '■ Thyrsis !' cry — ' what will become of thee ! 
What wouldst thou, Thyrsis ? such should not appear 
The brow of youth stern, gloomy, and severe ; 
Brisk youth should laugh, and love — ah, shun the fate 
Of those, twice wretched mopes ! who love too late !" 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
iEgle with Hyas came, to sooth my pain, 
And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain, 
Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat 
Known far and near, and for her self-conceit ; 
Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands 
That skirt the Idumanian current, stands ; 
But all in vain they came, and but to see 
Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah blest indiff'rence of the playful herd. 
None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd ! 
No bonds of amity the flocks enthral. 
But each associates, and is pleas'd with all ; 
So graze the dappled deer in num'rous droves. 
And all his kind alike the zebra loves ; 
The same law governs, where the billows roar, 
And Proteus' shoals o'cvspread the desert shoro ; 
17^ 



198 TRANSLiVTIOxNS FROM MILTON 

The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race, 

His fit companion finds in every place, 

With whom he picks the grain that suits him best. 

Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, 

And whom if chance the falcon make his prey, 

Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay, 

For no such loss the gay survivor grieves : 

New love he seeks, and new delight receives, 

We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice. 

Scorning all others, in a single choice. 

We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind. 

And if the long-sought good at last we find, 

When least we fear it. Death our treasure steals, 

And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals. 

'^ Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are ; 
My thoughts ai-e all now due to other care. 
Ah, what delusion lur'd me from my flocks. 
To traverse Alpine snows, and rugged rocks ! 
What need so great had I to visit Rome, 
Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb ? 
Or, had she flourish'd still, as when of old, 
For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold, j 

What need so great had I t' incur a pause j 

Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause, j 

For such a cause to place the roaring sea, | 

Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and mef | 

Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, compos'd j 

Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eye-lids clos'd, | 

And, at the last, had said — ' Farewell — ascend — 
Nor even in the skies forget thy friend !' j 

" Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. | 

Although well-pleas'd, ye tuneful Tuscan swains ! j 

My mind the mem'ry of your worth retains, 
Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn 
My Davnon lost. He too was Tuscan born. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 199 
Born in your Lucca, city of renown ! 
And wit possess'd, and geniuS; like your own. 
Oh how elate was I, when stretch'd beside 
The murm'ring course of Arno's breezy tide, 
Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours, 
Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flow'rs, 
And hearing, as I la}' at ease along. 
Your swains contending for the prize of song ! 
I also dar'd attempt (and, as it seems, 
Not much displeas'd attempting) various themes, 
For even I can presents boast from you, 
The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too. 
And Dati, and Francini, both have made 
My name familiar to the beechen shade, 
And they are learn'd, and each in ev'ry place 
Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race 

" Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
While bright the dewy grass with moon-beams shonCj 
And I stood hurdling in my kids alone. 
How often have I said (but thou hadst found 
Ere then thy dark cold lodgment under ground 
Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares 
Or wicker-work for various use prepares ! 
How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd 
New scenes of pleasure, that I hop'd at hand, 
Call'd thee abroad as I wa.i wont, and cried — 
* What hoa ! my friend — come lay thy task aside, 
Haste, let us forth together, and beguile 
The heat, beneath yon wliisp'ring shades awhile 
Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood. 
Or wliere Cassibelan's grey turrets stood ! 
There thou shalt cull mc simples, and shalt teach 
Thy friend the name, and healing pow'rs of each, 
From the tali blue-bell to the dwarfish weed. 
What the dry land, and what the marshes breed, 



200 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

For all their kinds alike to thee are known, 

And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' 

Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd bo 

The useless herbs, that gave not health to thee ! 

Twelve evenings since, as in poetick dream 

1 meditating sat some statelier theme, 

T)ie reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new, 

And unassay'd before, than wide they flew, 

Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain 

The deep-ton'd musick of the solemn strain ; 

And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell 

How proud a theme I chose — ye groves, farewell 

" Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be, 
How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, 
First from Rutupia's tow'ring headland seen, 
And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen ; 
Of Brennus, and Belinus, brothers bold, 
And of Arviragus, and how of old 
Our hardy sires, th' Armorican controll'd, 
And of the wife of Gorlois, who, surpris'd 
By Uther, in her husband's form disguis'd, 
(Such was the force of Merlin's art) became 
Pregnant with Arthur of heroick fame. 
These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate 
Proportion to these themet^ my lengthen'd date. 
Adieu, my shepherd's reed — yon pine-tree bough 
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou 
Forgotten and di^us'd, unless ere long 
Thou change thy Latian for a British song ; 
A British ? — even so — the pow'rs of man 
Are boundsd ; little is the most he can ; 
And it shall well suffice me, and shall be 
Fame, and proud recompense enough for me, 
If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, 
If Alain, bending o'er his crystal urnj 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 201 

Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ersliadovv'd stream, 
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, 
Tamar's ore-tinctur'd flood, and, after these, 
The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. 

" Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
All this I kept m leaves of laurel-rind 
Enfolded safe, and for thy view designed, 
This — and a gift from Manso's hand beside, 
(Manso, not least his native city's pride,) 
Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone, 
Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. 
The spring was graven there } here slowly wind 
The Red-sea shores, with groves of spices lin'd ; 
Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs 
The sacred, solitary Phcenix shows ; 
And watchful of the dawn, reverts her head, 
To see Aurora leave her wat'ry bed. 
— In other part, th' expansive vault above, 
And there too, even there, the God of Love 
With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays 
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze, 
Around his bright and fiery eyes he rolls. 
Nor aims at vulgar minds, or little souls. 
Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high. 
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky ; 
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn 
The pow'r of Cupid, and enamour "d burn. 

" Thou also, Damon, (neither need I fear 
That hope delusive,) thou art also there ; 
For whither should simplicity like thine 
Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine ? 
Thou dvveirst not (thought profane) in shades below, 
Nor tears suit thee — cease then my tears to flow, 
Away with grief: on Damon ill-bestow'd ! 
Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, 



202 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Has pass'd tlie showTy arch, henceforth resides 
With saints and heroes, and from ilowing tides 
Quaffs copious immortality, and joy, 
With hallow'd lips ! — Oh ! blest without alloy, 
And now enrich'd, with all that faith can claim 
Look down, entreated by whatever name, 
If Damon please thee most, (that rural sound 
Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around,) 
Or if Diodatus, by which alone 
In those ethereal mansions thou art known. 
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste 
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste, 
The honours, therefore, by divine decree 
The lot of virgin worth are given to thee ; 
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, 
And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand, 
Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice. 
And join with seraphs thy according voice. 
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatick lyre 
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing choir." 



( 203 ) 



AN ODE 



ADDRESSED TO 



MR. JOHN ROUSE, LIBRARIAN, 



OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 

On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me 

to replace, that he m.ight add them to my other 

Works deposited in the Library. 



This Ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might 
more adequately represent the original, which, as 
Milton himself informs us, is of no certain measure. 
It may possibly for this reason disappoint the reader, 
though it cost the writer more labour than the transla- 
tion of any other piece in the whole collection. 



My two-fold book ! single in show 

But double in contents, 
Neat, but not curiously adorn'd, 

Which, in his early youth, 
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, 
Although an earnest wooer of the Muse- 
Say while in cool Ausonian shades, 



204 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Or British wilds he roam'd, 

Striking by turns his native lyre, 

By turns the Daunian lute, 

And stepp'd almost in air. — 

ANTISTEOPHE. 

Say, little book, what furtive hand 
Thee from thy fellow-books convey *d, 
What time, at the repeated suit 

Of my most learned friend, 
I sent thee forth an honoured traveller. 
From our great city to the source of Thames, 

Cserulean sire ! 
"Where rise the fountains, and the rapture ring 
Of the Aonian choir. 
Durable as yonder spheres, 
And through the endless lapse of years 
Secure to be admir'd ? 



STROPHE II. 1 1 

i 
! 
! 



Now what God, or Demigod, 
For Britain's ancient Genius mov'd, 

(If our afflicted land 
Have expiated at length the guilty sloth 
Of her degenerate sons) 
Shall terminate our impious feuds. 
And discipline, with hallow'd voice recall? 
Recall the Muses too, 
Driv'n from their ancient seats 
In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, 
And with keen Phoebean shafts 
Piercing th' unseemly birds, 
Whose talons menace us, 
Shall drive the Harpy rare from Helicon afer. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 203 



ANTISTROPHE. 

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd 
Whether by treach'ry lost. 
Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, 

From all thy kindred books, 
To some dark cell, or cave forlorn, 

Where thou endur'st, perhaps, 
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, 

Be comforted — 
For lo ! again the splendid hope appears 

That thou may'st yet escape 
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings 
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove ! 

stuophe III. 

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains 
That, though by promise his. 
Thou yet appear'st not in thy place 
Among the literary noble stores 

Giv'n to his care, 
But, absent, leav'st his numbers incomplete, 
He, therefore, guardian vigilant 

Of that unperishing wealth. 
Calls thee to the interiour shrine, his charge, 
Where he intends a richer treasure far 
Than Ion kept (Ion, Erectheus' son 
Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born) 
In the resplendent temple of his God, 
Tripods of gold and Delphick gifts divine. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, 
The Muses' fav'rite haunt ; 
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome 
Vol. III. 18 



206 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Dearer to him 
Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill ! 

Exulting go, 
Since now a splendid lot is also thine, 
And thou art sought by my propitious friend ; 

For there thou shalt be read 
With authors of exalted note, 
The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. 



Ye then, my works, no longer vain, 
And worthless deem'd by me ! 
Whate'er this sterile genius has produc'd, 
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, 
An unmolested happy home. 
Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, 
Where never flippant tongue profane 
Shall entrance find, 
And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 
Shall babble far remote. 
Perhaps some future distant age. 
Loss ting'd with prejudice, and better taught, 
Shall furnish minds of pow'r 
To judge more equally. 
Then, malice silenced in the tomb. 
Cooler heads and sounder hearts. 
Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise 
I merit, shall with candoui weigh the claim 



(207) 
TRANSLATIONS 

OF 

THE ITALIAN POEMS. 



SONNET. 

Fair Lady, whose harmonious name the Rhine, 
Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, 
Base were indeed the wretch, who could forbear 

To love a spirit elegant as thine. 

That manifests a sweetness all divine, 

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, 
And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, 

Temp'ring thy virtues to a softer shine. 

When gracefully thou speak'st or singest gay. 
Such strains, as might the senseless forest move, 

Ah then — turn each his eyes, and ears, away, 
Who feels himself unworthy of thy love S 

Grace can alone preserve him, ere the dart 

Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. 

SONETTO. 

Donna leggiadra, il cui bel norae honora 
L'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco, 
Bene e colui d'ogni valore scarco, 
Qual tuo spirto gentil non innamora; 

Che dolcemente mostra si di fuora 
De sui atti soavi giammai parco. 



208 TKANSLATIONS FROM MILTON 
F i don,' che son d'amor saette ed arco, 
La onde I'alta tua virtu s'infiora. 

Quando tu vaga parli, o lieta canti, 
Che mover possa duro alpestre legno, 
Guardi ciascun a gli occhi, ed a gli orecchi 

L'entrata, chi di tre si truova indegno ; 
Grazia sola di su gli vaglia, innanti 
Che'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi. 



SONNET. 

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 

Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair 
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, 
Borne from its native genial airs away, 
That scarcely can its tender bud display : 

So, on my tongue these accents, new, and rare, 
Are flow'rs exotick, which Love waters there, 
While thus, O sweetly scornful ! I essay 

Thy praise, in verse to British ears unknown, 
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain j 
So love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown, 
That what he wills, he never wills in vain. 
Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be. 
To Him, who plants from Heav'n, a soil as free ! 



SONETTO. 

QuAL in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera, 
L'avvezza giovinetta pastorella 
Va bagnando I'herbetta strana e Delia, 
Che mal si spande a disusata spera, 
Fuor di sua natia alma primavera ; 
Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snella 
Desta il fior novo di strania favella, 
Mentre io di te vezzosamente altera, 



TRANSLATJONS FROM MILTON 209 
Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso. 

E'l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno, 

Amor lo volse, ed io a 1' altrui peso, 
Seppi, ch'Amor cosa mai volse indarno, 

Deh ! fos' il mio cuor lento, e'l duro seno, 

A clii pianta dal ciel, si buon terrene ! 



CANZONE. 

They mock my toil — the nymphs and am'rous svvams, 

And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry. 

Love-songs in language that thou little know'st ? 

How dar'st thou risk to sing these foreign strains ? 

Say truly. Fmd'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, 

And that thy fairest flowers, here fade and die ? 

Then with pretence of admiration high — 

Thee other shores expect, and other tides, 

Rivers, on whose grassy sides 

Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind 

Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides ; 

Why then this burthen, better far declin'd ? 

Speak, Muse ! for me. — The fair one said, who guideg 

My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights, 

" This is the language, in which Love delights." 



CANZONE. 

RiDONsi donne, e giovani amorosi 
M' accostandosi attorno, e perche scrivi, 
Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e strana 
Verseggiando d' amor, e come t' osi .'' 
Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vana, 
E de pensieri lo miglior t' arrivi ; 
Cosi mi van burlando, altri rivi 
Altri lidi t'aspettan, ed altre onde 
Nelle cui verdi sponde 
18* 



210 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 
Spuntati ad hor, a la tua chionia 
L' immortal guiderdon d' eterne frondi : 
Perche alle spalle tue soverchia soma ? 

Canzon, dirotti, e tu per me rispondi ' 
Dice mia Donna, e'l suo dir e il mio cuore 
" Questa e lingua, di cui si vanta Amore." 



SONNET 

TO CHARLES DIODATI. 

Charles — and I say it wond'ring — thou must know 
That I, who once assum'd a scornful air. 
And scofF'd at love, am fall'n in his snare, 
(Full many an upright man has fallen so) 
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
Of golden locks, or damask cheek : more rare 
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair ; 
A mien majestick, with dark brows that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind ; 
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, 
And song, whose fascinating pow'r might bind, 
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring Moon, 
With such fire darting eyes, that should I fill 
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still. 

SONETTO. 

DioDAfi, e tel diro con maraviglia, 

Quel ritroso io, ch'amor spreggiar solea, 

E de suoi lacci spesso mi ridea, 

Gia caddi, ov'huom dabben talhor s'impiglia 

Ne treccie d' oro, ne-gwancia vermiglia 
M' abbaglian si, ma sotto nuova idea 
Pellegrina bellezza, che'l cuor bea, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Portamenti alti honesti, e nelle ciglia 

Quel sereno fulgor d'amabil nero, 

Parole adorne, di lingua piu d'una, 
E'l cantar, che di mezzo rhemispero 

Traviar ben puo la faticosa Luna, 

E degli occhi suoi avventa si gran fuoco, 
Che I'incerar gli orecchi mi fia poco. 



211 



SONNET. 

Lady ! It cannot be, but that thine eyes 

Must be ray sun, such radiance they display, 
And strike me e'en as Phcebus him, whose way 
Through horrid Lybia's sandy desert lies. 
Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise 

Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, 
Nev/ as to me they are, I cannot say, 
But deem them, in the lover's language — sighs. 
Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, 
Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend 
To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals. 
While others to my tearful eyes ascend. 
Whence ray sad nights in show'rs are ever drown'd, 
Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound. 



SONETTO. 

Per certo i bei vostr'occhi. Donna mia, 

Esser non puo, che non sian lo mio sole, 
Si mi percuoton forte, come ei suole 
Per I'arene di Libia, chi s'invia : 

Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria) 

Da quel lato si spinge, ove mi duole, 
Che forse amanti nelle lor parole, 
Chiaman sospir ; io non so che si sia : 

Parte rinchiusa, e turbida si cela 

Scosso mi il petto, e poi n'uscendo peer 
Quivi d' attorno o s'agghiaccia, o s'ingi 



212 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 

Ma qnanto a gli occhi giunge a trovar loco 
Tutte le notti a me suol far piovose 
Finche mia Alba rivien, colma di rose. 

SONNET. 

Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, 
Uncertain whither from myself to fly, 
To thee, dear lady, with an humble sigh 
Let me devote my heart, which I have found 
By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound. 

Good, and addicted to conceptions high. 
When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky, 
It rests in adamant self-wrapt around, 
As safe from envy, and from outrage rude, 
From hopes and fears, that vulgar minds abuse, 
As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude, 
Of the resounding lyre, and every Muse. 
Weak you will find it in one only part, 
Now pierc'd by Love's immedicable dart, 

SONETTO. 

GiovANE piano, e semplicetto amante, 

Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sone, 

Madonna, a voi del mio cuor I'humil dona 

Faro divoto ; io certo a prove tante 
L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante 

De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono ; 

Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, 

S'arma di se, e d' intero diamante, 
Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro, 

Di timori, e speranze al popol use 

Quanto d"ingegno, e d'alto valor vago, 
E di cetra sonora, e delle Muse : 

Sol troverete in tal parte men duro, 

Ove Amor mise I'insaiiabil ago. 



(213) 



EPITAPH 



MRS. M HIGGINS, OF WESTON. 

[1791.] 

Laurels may flourish round the conqu'ror's tomb 
But happiest they, who win the world to come : 
Believers have a silent field to fight, 
And their exploits are veil'd firom human sight, 
They in some nook, where little known they dwell. 
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of Hell ; 
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 



THE RETIRED CAT. 

[1791.] 

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave 
As poet well could wish to have, 
Was much addicted to inquire 
For nooks to which she might retire, 
And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
She might repose, or sit and think. 
I know not where she caught the trick— » 
Nature perhaps herself had cast her 
In such a mould philosophique, 
Or else she learn'd it of her Master. 



214 THE RETIRED CAT. 

Sometimes ascending, debonair, 
An apple-tree, or lofty pear, 
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, 
She watch'd the gard'ner at his work , 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty wat'ring pot, 
There, wanting nothing, save a fan. 
To seem some nymph in her sedan 
Apparel'd in exactest sort. 
And ready to be borne to court. 

But love of change it seems has place 
Not only in our wiser race ; 
Cats also feel, as well as we, 
That passion's force, and so did she. 
Her climbing, she began to find, 
Exposed her too much to the wind, 
And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within : 
She, therefore, wish'd instead of those 
Some place of more serene repose. 
Where neither cold might come, nor air 
Too rudely wanton with her hair, 
And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master's snug abode. 

A draw'r, it chanc'd at bottom hn'd 
With linen of the softest kind. 
With such as merchants introduce 
From India, for the ladies' use, 
A draw'r impending o'er the rest, 
Half open in the topmost chest. 
Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
Invited her to slumber there : 
Puss with delight, beyond expression, 
Survey'd the scene, and took possession : 
Recumbent at her ease, ere long. 
And luU'd by her own humdrum song, 



THE RETIRED CAT. 
She left the cares of life behind, 
And slept as she would sleep her last, 
When in came, housewifely inclin'd, 
The chambermaid, and shut it fast, 
By no malignity iinpell'd. 
But all unconscious whom it held. 

Awaken'd by the shock, (cried puss) 
*' Was ever cat attended thus ! 
The open draw was left 1 see, 
Merely to prove a nest for me, 
For soon as I was well compos'd, 
Then came the maid, and it was clos'd. 
How smooth these 'kerchiefs and how sweet ' 
Oh what a delicate retreat ! 
I will resign rnyself to rest 
Till Sol declining in the west, 
Shall call to supper, when no doubt, 
Susan will come and let me out." 

The evening came, the sun descended, 
And Puss remain'd still unattended. 
The night roll'd tardily away, 
(With her indeed twas never day,) 
The sprightly morn her course renew'd, 
The evening gray again ensu'd. 
And Puss came into mind no more, 
Than if entomb'd the day before. 
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, 
She now presag'd approaching doom. 
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd. 
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd ! 

That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
Heard an inexplicable scratching ; 
His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 
And to himself he said " what's that ?" 



216 THE RETIRED CAT. 

He drew the curtain at his side, 

And forth ho peep'd, but nothing spied. 

Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 

Something iniprison'd in the chest, 

And, doubtful what, with prudent care 

Resolv'd it should continue there. 

At length a voice wliich well he knev/, 

A long and melancholy mew, 

Saluting his poetick ears, 

Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears; 

He left his bed, he trod the floor, 

He 'gan in haste the draw'rs t' explore^ 

The lowest first, and without stop 

The rest in order to the top. 

For 'tis a truth well known to most, 

That whatsoever thing is lost, 

We seek it, ere it come to light, 

In ev'ry cranny but the right. 

Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete 

As erst with airy self-conceit, 

Nor in her own fond apprehension 

A theme for all the world's attention. 

But modest, sober, cur'd of all 

Her notions hyperbolical. 

And wishing for a place of rest. 

Any thing rather than a chest. 

Then stepp'd the poet into bed 

"With this reflection in his head. 

MORAL. 

Beware of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence, 
The man who dreams himself so great, 
And his importance of such weight, 
That all around in all that's done 
Must move and act for Him alone, 
We learn in school of tribulation 
The folly of his expectation. 



(217) 



YARDLEY OAK. 



[1791.] 

SoRvivoR sole, and hardly such, of all. 
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
(Since which I number threescore winters past,) 
A shatter 'd vet'ran, hollo w-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
ReUcks of Ages ! Ceuld a mind, imbued 
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with rev'rence ki^eel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse, 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpurified by an authentick act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once ; a cup and ball. 
Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay, 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd 
The Auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs. 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree niellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 
Vol. III. 19 



218 YARDLEY OAK. 

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, 
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature : and in the loamy clod 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct 
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, 
Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact ; 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. 

Who liv'd when thou wast such ? Oh, couldst thou 
speak, 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious, ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 

Recov'ring, and misstated setting right 

Desp'rate attempt till trees shall speak again ! 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods • 
And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks 
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltcr'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 



YARDLEY OAK. 219 

While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant -bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss cushion'd root 
Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which time is charg'd to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

What exhibitions va/ious hath the world 
Witness'd of mutability m all 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man, 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, 
Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works. 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The force, that agitates, not unimpair'd ; 
But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence. 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck 



220 YARDLEY OAK. 

Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms, 
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber,* many a load ! 
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd 
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 
With his sly scythe, whose ever nibbling edge, 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide, 
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems 
An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, 
Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, 
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself ! 

Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them 
off 
Long since, and roveis of the forest wild 

♦ Knee-Timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, 
by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle 
formed where the deck m\d the ship's sides meet. 



YARDLEY OAK. 221 

With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have 

left 
A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snow^y white ; 
And some, memorial none where once they grew. 
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can, 
Even v/here death predominates. The spring 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd 
Half a millennium since the date of thine. 
But since, although well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
In my own ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all, 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor ov/'d articulation to his ear : 
But, moulded by his Makor into man 
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties, assigned 
To eacn his name significant, and, fill'd 
With love and wisdom, rendered back to Heav'n 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excus'd the penalties of dull 
Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Leand on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, 

Eventful, should supply her with a thome ;• 

19* 



( 222 ) 



THE NIGHTINGALE, 

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW-YEAR'S DAV. 

[1792.] 

Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, 

The melody of May ? 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favour shown. 
Am I selected from the crowd, 

To witness it alone ? 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that I also long 
Have practis'd in the groves like theo, 

Though not like thee in song ? 

Or isl-ng'st thou rather under force 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand .•' 

Thrice welcome, then ! for many a long 

And joyless year have I, 
Ad thou to-day, put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

Bat thee no wintry skies can harm, 

Who only need'st to sing. 
To make ev'n January charm, 

And ev'ry season Spring, 



( 223 ) 



LINES, 

IVritten for insertion, in a collection of hand-writings 

and signatures made by Miss Patty, sister of 

Hannah More. 

[March 6, 1792.] 

In vain to live from age to age 

"While modern bards endeavour, 

I write my name in Patty's page, 
And gain my point for ever. 

W. COVVPER 



EPITAPH 



A free but tame Redbreast, a favourite of 
Miss Sally Hurdis. 

IMarch, 1792.] 

Thkse are not dew-drops, these are tears, 

And tears by Sally shed 
For absent Robin, who she fears, 

With too much cause, is dead. 

One morn he came not to her hand 

As he was wont to come, 
And on her finger perch'd, to stand 

Picking his breakfast crumb. 



224 SONNET. 

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and porplex'd 

She sought him but in vain, 
That day he came not, nor the next, 

Nor ever came again. 

She, therefore, raised him here a tomb, 
Though v/here he fell, or how, 

None knows, so secret was his doom, 
Nor where he moulders now. 

Had half a score of coxcombs died 

In social Robin's stead. 
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, 

Or haply never shed. 

But Bob was neither rudely bold, 

Nor spiritlessly tame ; 
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, 

But always in a flame. 



SONNET 

TO 

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESa. 

l^pril 16, 1792.] 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 
Fanatick, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 

From exile, publick sale, and slav'ry's chain. 

Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter gall'd, 

Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. 



EPIGRAM. 225 

Thou hast achiev'd a part ; hast gain'd the ear 
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause ; 
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause 

A nd weave delay, the better hour is near 

That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws. 

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth, and all tho blest above. 



EPIGRAM. 



{Printed in the Northampton Mercury.) 

To purify their wine some people bleed 
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; 
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good 
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood. 
Now lamhs and negroes both are harmless things, 
And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone — 
Good cause why planters never try their own 



(226, 



DR. AUSTIN, 

or CECIL-STREET, LONDON. 

[May 26, 1792.] 

Austin ! accept a grateful verse from me, 
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee ! 
Lov'd by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of time aside, 
Immortalizing names which else had died ; 
And O ! could I command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health ; 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
I would not recompense his art with less, 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 

Friend of my friend !* I love thee, tho' unknown, 
And boldly call thee, being his, ray own. 

• Hayley. 



(227) 



SONNET, 



ADDRESSED TO 



WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

[June 2, 1792.] 



Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown, 
In our first interview, delightful guest ! 
To Mary and me for her dear sake distress'd, 

Such as it is has made my heart thy own, 

Though heedless now of new engagements grown , 
For threescore winters make a wintry breast, 
And I had purpos'd ne'er to go in quest 

Of Friendship more, except with God alone. 
But thou hast won me ; nor is God my foe, 

Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, 

Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, 
My brother, by whose sympathy I know 

Thy true deserts infallibly to scan, 

Not more t' admire the bard than love the man. 



( 228 ) 
CATHARINA : 

THE SECOND PART. 

On her Marriage to George Courtenay, Esq, 
[June, 1792.] 

Believe it or not, as you choose, 

The doctrine is certainly true, 
That the future is known to the muse. 

And poets are oracles too. 
I did but express a desire, 

To see Catharina at home, 
At the side of my friend George's fire. 

And lo — she is actually come. 

Such prophecy some may despise, 

But the wish of a poet and friend 
Perhaps is approv'd in the skies. 

And therefore attains to its end. 
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth 

From a bosom effectually warm'd 
With the talents, the graces, and worth 

Of the person for whom it was form'd. 

Maria* would leave us, I knew, 

To the grief and regret of us all, 
But less to our grief could we view 

Catharina the Queen of the Hall. 
And therefore I wish'd as I did, 

And therefore this union of hands 
Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 

But all cry — Amen — to the banns. 

* LaHy Throckmorton. 



AN EPITAPH. 229 

Since therefore I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain. 
When making" good wishes for Her, 

I will e'en to my wishes again — 
With one I have made her a Wife, 

And now I will try with another, 
Which I cannot suppress for my life — 

How soon 1 can make her a Mother 



AN EPITAPH. 

[1792.] 

Here lies one who never drew 
Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger, 
Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obey'd 
At his signified desire, 
Would advance, present, and Fire- 
Stout he was, and large of limb. 
Scores have fled at sight of him ; 
And to all this fame he rose 
Only following his Nose. 
Neptune was he call'd, not He 
Who controls the boist'rous sea, 
But of happier command, 
Neptune of the furrow'd land ; 
And your wonder vain to shorten, 
Pointer to S«r John Throckmortotu 

Vol. III. 20 



( 230 ) 
EPITAPH ON FOP, 

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTOW. 

[Augxist, 1792.] 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
Here moulders One whose bones some honour claim. 
No sycophant, although jf spaniel race, 
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase— 
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice ; 
This record of his fate exulting view, 
He died worn out vyith vain pursuit of you. 

" Yes — " the indignant shade of Fop replies— 
" And worn with vain pursuit, Man also dies." 



SONNET 



GEORGE ROMNEY, ESa 



His picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Eartkam in 

the 61st year of my age, and in the months of 

August and September, 1792. 

^October, 1792.] 

RoMNEY, expert infallibly to trace 

On chart or canvass, not the form alone 
And semblance, but, however faintly shown. 

The mind's impression too on every face — 



ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 231 

With strokes that time ought never to erase 

Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own | 

The subject worthless, I have never known 

The artist shining with superiour grace. 

But this I mark — that symptoms none of wo 

In thy incomparable work appear. 
Well — 1 am satisfied it should be so, 

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear : 

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see 
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to Thee ? 



ON 



RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 

{January, 1793.] 

In language warm as could be breath'd or penn'd, 
Thy picture speaks th' Original, my Friend, 
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind — 
They only speak thee Friend of all mankind ; 
Expression here more soothing still I see, 
That Friend of all a partial Friend to me. 



( 232 ) 
EPITAPH 

ON 

MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY. 

l^pril 1793.] 

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, 
Till all who knew him follow to the skies. 
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep ; 
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep, 
And justly — few shall ever nim transcend 
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. 



A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER, 

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. 

[Spring of 1793.] 

Thrive, gentle plant ; and weave a bow'r 

For Mary and for me. 
And deck with many a splendid flow'r 

Thy foliage large and free. 

Thou cani'st from Eartham, and wilt shade 

(If truly I divine) 
Some future day th' illustrious head 

Of Him who made thee mine. 



TO ANNE BODHAM. 233 

Should Daphne show a jealous frown, 

And envy seize the Bay, 
Af&rming none so fit to crown 

Such honour'd brows as they, 

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, 

And with convincing pow'r ; 
For why should not the Virgin's Friend 

Be crown'd with Virgin's bow'r ? 



TO MY COUSIN, 

ANNE BODHAM, 

ON 

Receiving from her a J^etwork Purse, made by herself 

[May 4, l/IK].] 

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
When I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything for a nurse, 
I danc'd and fondled on ray knee, 
A kitten both in size and glee, 

I thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here : 
But not of love ; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it ; 
.1, therefore, as a proof of love. 
Esteem thy present far above 

The best thing's kept within it. 
20* 



( 234 ) 
INSCRIPTION 

For an Hermitage in the Author's Garden. 

{May, 1793.] 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
Built, as it has been, in our waning yearS; 
A rest afforded to our weary feet. 
Preliminary to — the last retreat. 



TO MRS. UNWIN. 

[May, 1793.] 

Maey ! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Such aid from heav'n as some have feign'd they 
drew, 

An eloquence scarce giv'n to mortals, now 
And undebas'd by praise of meaner things. 
That ere through age or wo I shed my wings, 

I may record thy worth with honour due, 

In verse as musical as thou art true, 
And that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a book 
By seraphs v,rrit with beams of heav'nly light, 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright ; 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 

And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. 



JOHN JOHNSON, 

ON 

Bis presenting me with an antique lust of Homer 
[May, 1793.] 

Kinsman belov'd and as a son, by me ! 
When I behold this fruit of thy regard, 
Tlie sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard, 

I rev'rence feel for him, and love for thee, 

Joy too and grief. Much joy that there should bo 
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward 
Witn gome applause my bold attempt and hard, 

Which others scorn : Criticks by courtesy. 

The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine 
I loose my precious years now soon to fail, 

Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 

Proves dross, when balanc'd in the Christian scalo 

Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, 

Seek heav'nly wealth, and work for God alone. 



( 236 ) 



A YOUNG FRIEND, 



ON 



Ilis arriving at Cambridge wet, ichen nr rain had 
fallen there. 

\_May, 1793.] 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 
found, 
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, 
Might fitly represent the Church endow'd 
With heav'nly gifts, to heatliens not allow'd ; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high, 
Thy locks were wet when others locks were dry. 
Heav'n grant us half the omen — may we see 
Not drought on others, but raucu dew on thee ! 



A TALE. 



[June, 1793.] 



In Scotland's realm where trees are few, 

Nor even shrubs abound ; 
But where, however bleak the view, 

Some better things are found. 



A TALE. 237 

For husband there and wife may boast 

Their union undefil'd. 
And false ones are as rare almost 

As hedge-rows in the wild. 

In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare, 

The hist'ry chanc'd of late — 
This hist'ry of a wedded pair, 

A chaffinch and his mate. 

The spring drew near, each felt a breast 

With genial instinct fill'd ; 
They pair'd and would have built a nest, 

But found not where to build. 

The heath uncover'd, and the moors, 

Except with snow and sleet, 
Sea-beaten rocks, and naked shores 

Could yield them no retreat. 

Long time a breeding-place they sought, 

Till both grew vex'd and tir'd ; 
At length a ship arriving, brought 

The good so long desir'd. 

A ship ! could such a restless thing 

Afford them place of rest ? 
Or was the merchant charg'd to bring 

Ths homeless birds a nest .'' 

Hush — silent hearers profit most — 

This racer of the sea 
Prov'd kinder to them than the coast, 

It serv'd them with a Tree. 

But such a tree : 'twas shaven deal. 

The tree they call a Mast, 
And had a hollow with a wheel 

Through which the tackle pass'd 



238 A TALE. 

Within that cavity aloft, 

Their roofless home they fix'd, 
Form'd with materials neat and soft, 

Bents, wool, and feathers niix'd. 

Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor ; 

With russet specks bedight — 
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore 

And lessens to the sight. 

The mother-bird is gone to sea 

As she had chang'd her kind ; 

But goes the male '' Far wiser, he 
Is doubtless left behind ? 

No — soon as from ashore he saw 
The winged mansion move, 

He flew to reach it, by a law 
Of never-failing love. 

Then perching at his consort's side, 
Was briskly borne along, 

The billows and the blast defied. 
And cheer'd her with a song. 

The seaman with sincere delight, 
His feather'd shipmates eyes, 

Scarce lest exulting in the sight 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 
And from a chance so new, 

Each some approaching good divinea, 
And may his hopes be true ! 

Hail honour' d land ! a desert where 
Not even birds can hide. 

Yet parent of this loving pair 
Whom nothing could divide. 



A TALE. 239 

And ye who, rather than resign 

Your matrimonial plan, 
Were not afraid to plough the brine 

In company with Man. 

For whose lean country much disdain 

We English often show, 
Yet from a richer nothing gain 

But wantonness and wo. 

Be it your fortune, year by year. 

The same resource to prove, 
And may ye, sometimes landing here, 

Instruct us how to love ! 



77m Tale is founded on an article of intelligence which iht 
Author found in the BvckingJiamskire Herald, for Saturday, 
June 1, 1793; in tlie following words. 

Glasgow, May 23. 
In a block, or pulley, near the head of ihe mast of 
a gabert, new lying at the Broomielaw, there is a 
chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built 
while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed 
hither by both birds. Thouffh the block is occasional- 
ly lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds 
have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits 
the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but 
when she descends to the hull for food. 



( 240 ) 



WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESa. 

[June 29, 1793.] 

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could, 
Than any buih of stone, or yet of wood, 

For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

O for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own, though little to thy good, 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 

A partnership of literary ware ! 

But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
To drudge, in descant dry, on other's lays ; 

Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth ! 
But what is commentator's happiest praise ? 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they, who need them, use, and then despiso. 



(241) 



A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, 

KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. 

[July 15, 1793.] 

A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 

Well fed, and at his ease, 
Should wiser be than to pursue 

Each trifle that he sees. 

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 

Which flew not till to-day, 
Against my orders, whom you heard 

Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that you might eat, 

And ease a doggish pain, 
For him, thousrh chas'd with furious heat, 

You left, where he was slain. 

Nor was he of the thievish sort, 
Or one whom blood allures. 

But innocent was all his sport 
Whom you have torn for yours 

My dog ! what remedy remains, 

Since, teach you all 1 can, 
I see you, after all my pains, 
So much resemble Man ? 
Vol. III. 21 



( 242 ) 



BEAU'S REPLY. 



Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 

In spite of your command, 
A louder voice than yours I heard, 

And harder to withstand. 

You cried — forbear— but in ray breast 
A mightier cried — proceed — 

'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest 
Impell'd me to the deed. 

Yet much as nature 1 respect, 

I ventur'd once to break, 
(As you, perhaps, may recollect) 

Her precept for your sake ; 

And when your linnet on a day, 

Passing his prison door. 
Had flutter'd all his strength away, 

And panting press'd the floor, '' 

Well knowing him a sacred thing, 

Not destin'd to my tooth, 
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing. 

And lick'd the feathers smooth. 

Let my obedience then excuse 

My disobedience now, 
Nor some reproof yourself refuse 

From your aggriev'd Bow-wow ; 

[f killing birds be such a crime, 

(Which I can hardly see,) 
What think you, Sir, of killing Time 

With verse address'd to me ? 



(243) 
ANSWER 

TO 

Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catha- 
rine Fanshaw, in returning a Poem of Mr. 
Cowper's lent to her on condition she shovld 
neither show it, nor take a copy. 

[1793.] 

To be remembered thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few like her the same, 

The press might sleep for me. 

So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd 

Of many a Grecian belle, 
Was once preserv'd — a richer hoard, 

But never lodged so well. 



TO 

THE SPANISH ADMIRAL, 
COUNT GRAVINA, 



His translating the .Author's Song on a Rose into 
Italian Verse. 

[1793.] 

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew. 
And, steep'd not now in rain, 

But in Castalian streams by You, 
Will never fade again. 



(244) 

ON 

FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. 

[September^ 1793.] 

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
Whom all this elegance might well seduce ; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall, 
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 



RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL 



FROM MR. HAYLEY. 



lOctober, 1793.] 



I SHOULD have deem'd it once an eftbrt vain, 
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain. 
But from that errour now behold me free, 
Since I receiv'd him as a gift from Thee. 



(245; 




TO MARY. 




[Autumn of 1793.] 


i 


The twentieth year is well nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast, 
Ah would that this might be the last ! 


My Mary • 


! 
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 

I see them daily weaker grow 

'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary ' 


Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore. 
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, 


! 

My Mary ' 


For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 


My Mary ! 


But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads, with magick art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary • 


Thy indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary • 
21* 



246 TO MARY. 

Thy silver locks once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary ' 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 

My Mary ' 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 

Thy hands their little force resign ; 

Yet gently prest, press gently mine, 

My Mary I 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now at every step thou mov'st. 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st. 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though prest with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still. 

My Mary • 

But ah ! by constant heed I know. 
How oft the sadness that I show. 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, 

My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 



— 1 



(247) 



MONTES GLACIALES, 



IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES. 

[March 11, 1799.] 

En, quae prodigia ex oris allala remotis, 
Oras adveniunt pavefacta per sequora nostras 
Non equidcm priscas saeclum rediisse videtur 
Pyrrhae, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes 
Et sylvas, egit. Sad tempora vix leviora 
Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti 
In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant 
Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visa ! 
Sptendentes video, ceu pulchro ex gere vel auro 
Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, 
Bacca casrulea, et fl-ammas imitante pyropo, 
Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus 
Parturit omnigenas, quibus seva per omnia sumptu 
Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges ? 
Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos 
Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam Uttora Gangis 
Liquissent, avidis gratissima praeda fuissent. 
Ortos unde putemus ? An illos Ves'vius atrox 
Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus ^tna ? 
Luce micant propria, Phoebive, per aera parum 
Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent ? 
Phcebi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis 
Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis. 
Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est 
Multa onerata nive, et canis conspersa pruinis 
Csetera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere 
omnes 



248 MONTES GLACIALES. 

Contristat menses, portenta hose horrida nobis 
Ilia strui voluit. Quoties de culmine suramo 
Clivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutas 
Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, 
Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese 
Mirum ccepit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerum 
In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem 
Aquavit monies, non crescere nescia moles. 
Sic immensa diu stetit, jeternumque stetisset 
Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, 
Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, 
Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
Antra et saxa gemunt, subito doncussa fragore, 
Dum ruit in pelagus tanquam studiosa natandi, 
Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, 
Insula, in MgiBO fluitasse erratica ponto. 
Sed non ex glacie Delos ; neque torpida Delum 
Bruma inter rapes genuit nudam sterilemque. 
Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquam 
Decidua lauro ; et Delum dilexit Apollo. 
At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni 
Cimmeria, Deus idem odit, Natalia vestru, 
Nubibus involvens frontem, non ilie tueri 
Sustinuit. Patrium vos erp;o requirite coelum ! 
Ite ! Redite ! Timete moias ; ni leniter austro 
Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas 
Hostili vobis, poreatis gurgite misti 



( 249 ) 



ON THE ICE ISLANDS, 



SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN. 
[March 19, 1799.] 

What portents, from what distant region, ride, 

Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish'd tide 

la ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 

Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves. 

But now, descending whence of late they stood, 

Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood, 

Dire times were they, full charg'd with human woes ^ 

And these, scarce less calamitous than those, 

What view we now ? More wondrous still ! Behold ! 

Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold ; 

And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, 

And all around tne ruby's fiery glow. 

Come they from India, where the burning Earth, 

All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth j 

And where the costly gems, that beam around 

The brow? of mightiest potentates, are found ? 

No. Never such a countless dazzling store 

Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore. 

Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, 

Should sooner far have marked and seized the prize. 

Whence sprang they then ? Ejected have they come 

From Ves'vius', or from ^Etna's burning womb ? 

Thus shine they self-illum'd, or but display 

The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day .'' 

With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales, that 

breathe 
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, 



250 THE ICE ISLANDS. 

Have borne them nearer ; and the nearer sight, 

Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. 

Their lofty summits crested high, they show, 

With mingled sleet, and long -encumbent snow. 

The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, 

Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year, 

Their infant growth began. He bade arise 

Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 

Oft as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow 

Left the tall cliff to join the flood below ; 

He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 

The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 

By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile. 

And long successive ages roll'd the while ; 

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand, 

Tall as its rival mountahis on the land. 

Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill. 

Or force of man, had stood the structure still ; 

But that, tho' firmly fix'd, supplanted yet 

By pressure of its own enormous weight, 

It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 

That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 

Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 

As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 

Down went the pond'rous mass. So bards of old. 

How Delos swam th' iEgean deep, have told, 

But not of ice was Delos. Dclos bore 

Herb, fruit, and flow'r. She, crown'd with laurel, worOf 

Ev'n under wintry skies, a summer smile ; 

And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle. 

But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you 

He deems cimmerian darkness only due. 

Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, 

But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. 

Hence ! Seek your home, nor longer rashly dare 

The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air ; 

Lest ye regret, too' late, your native coast. 

In no congenial gulf for ever lost ' 



(251 ) 

THE CASTAWAY. 

IMarch, 20, 1799.] 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky j 
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd. 

When such a destin'd wretch as I, 
Wash'd headlong from on board, 

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 

His floating home for ever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast, 
Than he, with whom he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
With warmer wishes sent. 

He lov'd them both, but both in vain, 

Nor him beheld, nor her again. 

Not long beneath the whelming brine, 

Expert to swim, he lay : 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But wag'd with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life 

He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 
To check the vessel's course. 

But so the furious blast prevail'd, 
That, pitiless, perforce. 

They left their outcast mate behind. 

And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succour yet they could afford - 
And, such as storms allow, 

The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
Delay'd not to bestow 



252 THE CASTAWAY. 

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore; 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could hs 
Their haste himself condemn, 

Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
Alone could rescue them ; 

Yet bitter felt it still to die 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean, self-upheld : 
And so long he, with unspent pow'r 

His destiny repell'd : 
And ever as the minutes flew, 
Entreated help, or cried — " Adieu '" 

At length, his transient respite past. 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 

Could catch the sound no more. 
For then, by toil subdu'd, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 

No poet wept him : but the page 

Of narrative sincere, 
That tells his name, his worth, his age, 

Is wet with Anson's tear. 
And tears by bards or heroes shed 
Alike immortalize the dead. 

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate, 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date. 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its semblance in another's case. 



THRAX. 

No voice divine the storm allay d, 
No light propitious shone ; 

When, snatchd from all effectual aid, 
We perish'd each alone : 

But I beneath a rougher sea, 

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. 



TRANSLATIONS 



VINCENT BOURNE. 



THRAX. 

Threicium infantem, cum lucem intravit et auras, 

Fletibus excepit msestus uterque parens. 
Threicium infantem, cum luce exivit et auris, 

Extulit ad funus leetus uterque parens. 
Interea tu Roma ; et tu tibi Greecia plaudens, 

Dicitis, hsec vera est Thraica barbaries. 
LflBtitiae causam, causamque exquirite luctus ; 

Vosqie est quod doceat Thraica barbaries. 

Vol. III. 22 



( 254 ) 



THE THRACIAN. 



Thracian parents, at his birth, 
Mourn their babe with many a tear, 

But with undissembled mirth 
Place him breathless on his bier. 

Greece and Rome with equal scorn^ 
" O the savages !" exclaim, 

" Whether they rejoice or mourn. 
Well entitled to the name !" 

But the cause of this concern. 
And this pleasure would they trace^ 

Even they might somewhat learn 
From the savages of Thrace. 



MUTUA BENEVOLENTIA 



PRIM ARIA LEX NATURiE EST. 

Per Libyee Androcles siccas errabat arenas ' 

Qui vagus iratum fugerat exul herum. 
Lassato tandem fractoque labore viarum, 

Ad scopuli patuit caeca caverna latus 
Hanc subit ; et placido dederat vix membra sopori 

Cum subito imraanis rugit ad antra leo ; 
lUe pedem attollens laesum, et miserable murmur 

Edens, qua poterat voce, precatur opem. 



MUTUA BENEVOLENTIA. 255 

Perculsus novitale rei, incertusque timore, 

Vix tandem tremulas adniovet erro manus ; 
Et spinam explorans (nam fixa in vulnere spina 

Haerebat) cauto molliter ungue trahit : 
Continue dolor oninis abit, teter fluit humor : 

Et coit, absterso sanguine, rupta cutis ; 
Nunc iterura sylvas dumosquo peragrat ; et afFert 

Providus assiduas hospcs ad antra dapes. 
Juxta epulis accumbit homo conviva leonis, 

Nee crudos dubitat participare cibos. 
Quis tamen ista ferat desertse teedia vitae ? 

Vix furor ultoris tristior esset heri. 
Devotura certis caput objectare periclis 

Et patrios statuit rursus cdire lares. 
Traditur hie, fera facturus spectacula, plebi, 

Accipit et raiserum tristis arena reum. 
Irruit e caveis fors idem impastus et acer, 

Et raedicum attonito suspicit ore leo. 
Suspicit, et veterem agnoscens vetus hospes amicum 

Decumbit notos blandulus ante pedes. 
Quid vero perculsi animis, stupuere Quirites ? 

Ecquid prodigii, te?rita. Roma, vides ? 
Unius naturae opus est ; ea, soia furorem 

Sumere quae jussit, ponere sola jubet. 



( 256 ) 



RECIPROCAL KINDNESS, 



THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE. 

Androcles from his injur'd lord in dread 
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled. 
Tir'd with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat, 
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat ; 
But scarce had giv'n to rest his weary frame, 
When hugest of his kind, a Hon came : 
He roar'd approaching ; but, the savage din 
To plaintive murmurs chang'd, arriv'd within, 
And witli expressive looks his lifted paw 
Presenting, aid implor'd from whom he saw. 
The fugitive, through terrour at a stand, 
Dar'd not awhile afford his trembling hand, 
But bolder grown, at length inherent found 
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
The cure was wrought ; he wip'd the sanious blood, 
And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day, 
Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepar'd, 
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shar'd. 
But thus to live — still lost — sequester'd still — 
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill. 
Home ! native home ! O might he but repair ! 
He must — he will, though death attends him there. 
He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands 
Of the full Theatre unpitied stands ; 
When lo ! the self-same lion from his cage 
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. 
He flies, but viewing in his purpos'd prey 
The man, his healer, pauses on his way, 



MANUALE. 257 

\nd soften'd by remembrance into sweet 
And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 

Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze : 
But why, ye Romans ? Whence your mute amaze ? 
All this is natural ; nature bade him rend 
An enemy ; she bids him spare a friend. 



MANUALE 



Typographia omni antiquius, nvlli uspiam Lihrorum 
insertum Catalogo. 

ExiGurs liber est, muliebri creber in usu, 

Per se qui dici bibliotheca potest. 
Copia verborum non est, sed copia rerum ; 

Copia (quod nemo deneget) utilior. 
Rubris consuitur pannis , fors texitur auro ; 

Bis sexta ad summum pagina claudit opus. 
Nil habet a tergo titulive aut nominis ; intus 

Thesauros artis servat, et intus opes . 
Intus opes, quas nympha sinu pulcherrima gestet, 

Quas nive candidior tractet ametque manus, 
Quando instrumentum praisens sibi postulat usus, 

Majusve, aut operis pro ratione, minus. 
Et genere et modulo diversa habet arma, gradatim 

Digesta, ad numeros attenuata suos. 
Primum enchiridii folium majuscula profert, 

Qualia quoe blssso est lumine poscat anus. 
Quod sequitur folium, matronis arma ministrat, 

Dicere quae magni's proximiora licet, 
Tertium, item quartum, quintumque minuscula sup- 
plet , 

Sed non ejusdem singula quseque loci. 
22* 



258 A MANUAL. 

Disposita ordinibus certis, discrimina servant ; 

Quge sibi conveniant, seligat unde nurus. 
Ultima qu£e restant quos multa minutula nympha 

Dicit, sunt sexti divitige folii. 
Quantillo in spatio doctrina O quanta latescit ! 

Quam tamen obscuram vix brevitate voces. 
Non est interpres, nee comraentarius ullus, 

Aut index ; tarn sunt omnia perspicua. 
iEtatem ad quamvis, ad captum ita fingitur omnem 

Ut nihil auxilii postulet inde liber. 
Millia librorum numerat perplura ; nee ullum 

Bodlsei huic jactat bibliotheca parem. 
Millia Ccesareo numerat quoque munere Granta, 

HaBC tamen est inter millia tale nihil. 
Non est, non istis auctor de raillibus unus, 

Cui tanta ingenii vis, vel acumen, inest. 



A MANUAL, 

^ore ancient than the Art of Printing, and not to Je 
found in any Catalogue. 

There is a book, which we may call 

(Its excellence is such) 
Alone a library tho' small ; 

The ladies thumb it much. 

Words none, things num'rous it contains ; 

And, things with words compar'd, 
Who needs be told, that has his brains. 

Which merits most regard ! 

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 

A golden edging boast ; 
And open'd, it displays to view 

Twelve pages at the most. 



A MANUAL. 25v 

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, 

Adorns its outer part ; 
But all within 'tis richly lin'd, 

A magazine of art. 

The whitest hands that secret hoard 

Oft visit : and the fair 
Preserve it in their bosom stor'd. 

As with a miser's care. 

Thence implements of ev'ry size, 

And form'd for various use, 
(They need but to consult their eyes) 

They readily produce. 

The largest and the longest kind 

Possess the foremost page, 
A sort most needed by the blind, 

Or nearly such from age. 

The full-charg'd leaf, which next ensues, 

Presents, in bright array, 
The smaller sort, which matrons use, 

Not quite so blind as they. 

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply 

What their occasions ask. 
Who with a more discerning eye 

Perform a nicer task. 

But still with regular decrease 

From size to size they fall, 
In ev'ry leaf grow less and less ; 

The last are least of all. 

O ! what a fund of genius, pent 

In narrow space, is Iierc ! 
This volume's method and intent 

How luminous and clear ' 



260 .ENIGMA. 

It leaves no reader at a loss 

Or pos'd, whoever reads : 
No commentator's tedious gloss, 

Nor even index needs. 

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er \ 
No book is treasur'd there, 

Nor yet in Granta's num'rous store 
That may with this compare. 

No ! Rival none in either host 

Of this was ever seen, 
Or, that contents could justly boast, 

So brilliant and so keen. 



ENIGMA. 

Parvula res, et acu minor est, et ineptior usu ' 

Quotque dies annus, tot tibi drachma dabit, 
Sed licet exigui pretii minimique valoris, 

Ecce, quot artificum postulat ilia manus. 
Unius in primis cura est conflare metallum ; 

In longa alterius decere fila labor. 
Tertius in partes resecat, quartusque resectum 

Perpolit ad modulos attenuatque datos. 
Est quinti tornare caput, quod sextus adaptet ; 

Septimus in punctum cudit et exacuit. 
i lis tandem auxiliis ita res procedit, ut omnes 

Ad numeros ingens perficiatur opus. 
QuaB tanti ingenii, quae tanti est summa labons : 

Si mihi respondes CEdipc, tota tua est. 



261 



AN ENIGMA. 

A NEEDLE small, as small can be. 
In bulk and use, surpasses me, 

Nor is my purchase dear ! 
For little and almost for nought 
As many of my kind are bought 

As days are in the year. 

Yet though but little use we boast, 
And are procur'd at little cost, 

The labour is not light, 
Nor few artificers it asks, 
All skilful in their sev'ral tasks, 

To fashion us aright. 

One fuses metal o'er the fire, 
A second draws it into wire. 

The shears another plies. 
Who clips in lengths the brazen thread 
For him, who, chafing every thread, 

Gives all an equal size. 

A fifth prepares, exact and round, 

The knob, with which it must be crown'd ; 

His follower makes it fast : 
And with his mallet and his file 
To shape the point, employs awhile 

The seventh and the last. 

Now therefore, CEdipus ! declare 
What creature, wonderful, and rare, 

A process, that obtains 
Its purpose with so much ado. 
At last produces ! — tell me true, 

And take me for your pains ! 



(262) 



PASSERES INDIGEN^f^. 



COL. TRIN. CANT. COMMENSAT.ES. 

Incola qui norit sedes, aut viserit hasce 

Newtoni egregii quas celebravit honos ; 
Viditque et meminit, lastus fortasse videndo, 

Quam multa ad mensas advolitarit avis. 
Ille nee ignorat, nidos ut, vere ineunte, 

Tecta per et forulos, et tabulata struat. 
Ut coram educat teneros ad pabula foetus, 

Et pascat micis, quas det arnica manus. 
Convivas quoties campanae ad prandia pulsus 

Convocat, hau-d epulis certior hopes adest. 
Continuo jucunda simul vox fertur ad aures, 

Vicinos passer quisque relinquit agros, 
Hospitium ad notum properatur ; et ordine stantes 

Expectant panis fragmina quisque sua. 
Hob tamen, hos omnes, vix uno largior asse 

Sumptus per totam pascit alitque diem. 
Hunc unum, hunc modicum (nee quisquam invidorit 
assem) 

Indigenae, hospitii }nr^^, itK^ronf.nr avos. 



( 263 ) 
SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED 

IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

None ever shar'd the social feast, 
Or as an inmate, or a guest, 
Beneath the celebrated dome, 
Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
Who saw not (and with some delight 
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) 
How num'rous, at the tables there. 
The sparrows beg their daily fare 
For there, in every nook, and cell, 
I Where such a family may dwell, 

Sure as the vernal season comes 
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs, 
Which kindly giv'n, may serve, with food 
Convenient, their unfeatlier'd brood , 
And oft as with its summons clear. 
The warning bell salutes the ear. 
Sagacious list'ners to the sound. 
They flock from all the fields around, 
To reach the hospitable hall. 
None more attentive to the call. 
Arriv'd, the pensionary band. 
Hopping and chirping, close at hand, 
Solicit what they soon receive, 
The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
Thus is a multitude, though large, 
Supported at a trivial charge ; 
A faingle doit would overpay 
Th' expenditure of every day, 
And who can grudge so small a grace 
To suDoliants natives of the place .' 



( 2C4 ) 



NULLI TE FACIAS NIMIS SODALEM 

Palpat heram felis, gremio recumbans in anili ; 

Quam semel atque iterum Lydia palpat hcra. 
Ludum lis sequitur ; nam totos exserit ungues, 

Et longo lacerat vulnere felis anum. 
Continuo exardens gremio muliercula felein 

Nee gravibus multis excutit absque minis : 
Quod tamen baud sequum est — si vult cum lele jftcarU 

Felinara debet Lydia ferre jocum. 



FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS. 

As in her ancient mistress' lap, 

The youthful tabby lay, 
They gave each other many a tap, 

Alike disposed to play. 

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 
And with protruded claws 

Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, 
Mere wantonness the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed, 
She shakes her to the ground 

With many a threat, that she shall bleed 
With stil! a deeper wound. 

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest, 

It was a venial stroke : 
For she that will with kittens jest, 

Should bear a kitten's joke. 



( 265 ) 



AD RUBECULAM INVITATIO. 



HosPES avis, conviva domo gratissima cuivis, 

Quam bruma humanam quoerere cogit opera 
Hue O ! hyberni fugias ut frigora cosli, 

Confuge, et incolumis sub lare vive meo ! 
Unde tuam esuriem releves, alimenta fenestras 

Apponam, quoties itque red*itque dies 
Usu etenim edidici, quod grato alimenta rependes 

Cantu, quae dederit cunque benigna manus. 
Vere novo tepidse spirant cum molliter aura^, 

Et novus in quavis arbore vernat honos, 
Pro libitu ad lucos redeas, sylvasque revisas, 

Lseta quibus resonat Musica parque tuae ! 
Sin iterum, sin forte iterum, inclementia brumae 

Ad mea dilectam tecta reducet avem, 
Esto, redux, grato memor esto rependere cantu 

Pabula, quae dederit cunque benigna manus • 
Vis hinc harmoniEe, numerorum hinc sacra potestas 

Conspicitur, nusquam conspicienda magis, 
Vincula quod stabilis firmissima nectit amoris, 

Vincula vix longa dissaocinda die. 
Captat, et incantat blando oblectamine Musa 

Humanum pariter pennigerumque genus ; 
Nos homines et aves quotcunque animantia vivuiit 

Nos soli harmonioB gens studiosa sumus 
Vol. III. ^3 



( 266 ) 



INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 



Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains- 

And seldom another it can — 
To seek a retreat, while he reigns, 

In the well-shelter 'd dwellings of man, 
Who never can seem to intrude, 

Tho' in all places equally free, 
Come, oft as the season is rude, 

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 

At sight of the first feeble ray, 

That pierces the clouds of the east. 
To inveigle thee every day 

My windows shall show thee a feast. 
For, taught by experience, I know 

Thee mindful of benefit long ; 
And that thankful for all 1 bestow. 

Thou wilt pay me with many a song. 

Then, soon as the swell of the buds 

Bespeaks the renewal of spring. 
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, 

Or where it shall please thee to sing : 
And shouldst thou, compeird by a frost, 

Come again to my window or door, 
Doubt not an affectionate host. 

Only pay as thou pay'dst me before. 

Thus musick must needs be confest 
To flow from a fountain above ; 

Else how should it work in the breast. 
Unchangeable friendship and love : 



STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE 267 

And who on the globe can be found, 

Save your generation and ours. 
That can be delighted by sound, 

Or boasts any musical pow'rs ' 



STRADyE PHILOMELA. 

Pastorem audivit calamis Philomela canentem, 

Et voluit tenues ipsa referre modos ; 
Ipsa retentavit numeros, didicitque retentans 

Argutum fida reddere voce melos. 
Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, misellam 

Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem 
Tuque etiam in modulos surgis Philomela ; sed impar 

Viribis, heu, impar, exanimisque cadis. 
Durum certamen ! tiistis victoria! cantum 

Maluerit pastor non superasse tuum. 



STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. 

The Shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philomel 
Essay'd, and oft assay'd to catch the strain, 

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell, 

The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before 
A rival of his skill, indignant heard, 

And soon, (for various was his tuneful store,; 
In loftier tones defied the simple bird. 



268 ANUS SiECULARlS. 

She dar'd the task, and rising, as he rose, 

With all the force, that passion gives, inspir'd, 
Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close, 

Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd. 

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife, 
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun j 

And, O sad victory, which cost thy life, 

And he may wish that he had never won ! 



ANUS SJECULARIS, 

Qit(B justam centum annorum attatem, ipso die natale^ 
explevit, et clausit anno 1728. 

SiNGULARis prodigium O senectae, 
Et novum exemplum diuturnitatis, 
Cujus annorum series in amplum 

desinit orbem ! 

Vulgus infelix hominum, dies en ! 
Computo quam dispare coniputamus ! 
Quam tua a summa procul est remota 

summula nostra ! 

Pabulum nos luxuriesque lethi, 
Nos simul nati, incipimus perire, 
Nos, statira a cunis cita destinamur 

proeda sepulchre ' 

Occulit mors insidias, ubi vix 
Vix opinari est, rapidseve febris 
Vim repentinam, aut male pertinacis 

semina morbL 



ANUS SiECULARIS. 26!) 

Sin breven) possit superare vita 
Terminum, quicquid superest vacivum, 
lUud ignavis superest et imbe- 

cillibus annis, 

Detrahunt multum, minuuntque sorti 
Morbidi questus gemitusque anheli ; 
Ad parem crescunt numerum diesque 

atque dolores 

Si quis haec vitet (quotus ille quisque est !) 
Et gradu pergendo laborioso 
Ad tuum, fortasse tuum, moretur 

reptilis sevurn 

At videt, mcEstum tibi sospe visum, in- 
jurias, vim, furta, dolos, et inso- 
lentiam, quo semper eunt, eodem 

ire tenore 

Nil inest rebus novitatis , ct quod 
Uspiam est nugarum et ineptiarum, 
Unius volvi videt, et revolvi 

circulus oBvi. 

Integram aetatera tibi gratulamur ; 
Et dari nobis satis sBstimamus, 
Si tuam, saltern vacuam querelis 

dimidiemus. 
23* 



(270 , 



ODE 



ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, 

Who lived one hundred Years, and died on her 
Birth-day, 1728. 

Ancient daiiie, how wide and vast, 
To a race like ours appears, 

Rounded to an orb at last, 

All thy multitude of years ! 

We the herd of human kind, 

Frailer and of feebler pow'rs ; 

We, to narrow bounds confin'd. 
Soon exhaust the sum of ours. 

Death's delicious banquet — we 
Perish even from the womb, 

Swifter than a shadow flee, 

Nourish'd but to feed the tomb. 

Seeds of merciless disease 

Lurk in all that we enjoy ; 

Some, that waste us by degrees, 
Some, that suddenly destroy. 

And if life o'erleap the bourn 
! Common to the sons of men : 

i What remains, but that wo mourn, 

Dream, and doat, and drivel then ? 

Fast as moons can wax and wane. 

Sorrow comes ; and while we groan, 

Pant with anguish and complain. 

Half our years are fled and gone. 



VICTORIA FORENSIS. 

If a few, (to few 'tis giv'n,) 

Ling'ring on this earthly stage, 

Creep, and halt with steps uneven, 
To the period of an age ; 

Wherefore live they, but to see 

Cunning, arrogance, and force, 

Sights lamented much by thoc. 

Holding their accustom'd couise i 

Oft was seen in ages past. 

All that we with wonder view ; 

Often shall be to the last ; 

Earth produces nothing new. 

Thee we gratulate ; content, 

Should propitious Heaven design 

Life for us, as calmly spent, 

Though but half the length of thine, 



VICTORIA FORENSIS. 

Caio cum Titio lis et vexatio longa 

Sunt de vicini proprietate .soli. 
Protinus ingentes animos in jurgia sumunt, 

Utraque vincendi pars studiosa nimis. 
Lis tumet in schedulas, et jam verbosior, et jam 

Nee verbum quodvis asse minoris emunt. 
Prsetereunt menses, et terminus alter et alter, 

Qui."que novos sumptus, alter et alter, habent. 
Ille querens, hie respondens pendente vocatur 

Lite} sed ad finem litis uterque querens. 



(272) 
THE CAUSE WON. 

Two neighbours furiously dispute ; 
A field — the subject of the suit. 
Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 
With which the combatants engage, 
'Twere hard to tell, who covets most 

The prize at whatsoever cost. 

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice 
No single word but has its price. 
No term but yields some fair pretence 
For novel and increas'd expense. 

Defendant thus becomes a name, 
Which he that bore it may disclaim ; 
Since both, in one description blended, 
Are plaintiffs — when the suit is ended. 



BOMBYX. 

Fine sub Aprilis Bombyx excluditur ove 

Reptilis exiguo corpore vermiculus, 
Frondibus hie mori, volvox dum fiat adultus, 

Gnaviter incumbens, dum satietur, edit. 
Crescendo ad justum cum jam maturuit asvum. 

Incipit artifici stamine textor opus : 
Filaque condensans filis, orbem implicat orbi, 

Et sensim in gyris conditus ipse latet. 
Jnque cadi teretem formam se colligit, unde 

Egrediens pennas papilionis habet ; 
Fitque parens tandem, fcetumque reponit in ovis ; 

Hoc demum extremo munere functus obit. 
Quotquot in hac nostra spirant animalia terra 

NuUi est vel brevior vita, vel utilior. 



(273 ) 



THE SILK WORM. 

The beams of April, ere it goes, 
A worm, scarce visible, aisclose ; 
All winter long content to dwell 
The tenant of his native shell. 
The same prolifick season gives 
The sustenance by which he lives. 
The mulb'rry leaf, a simple store, 
That serves him — till he needs no more : 
For, his dimensions once complete, 
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; 
Though, till his growing time be past. 
Scarce ever is he seen to fast ; 
That hour arriv'd, his work begins. 
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins ; 
Till circle upon circle wound 
Careless around him and around. 
Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 
Impervious to the keenest sight. 
Thus self-enclos'd, as in a cask. 
At length he finishes his task : 
And, though a worm, when he was lost, 
Or caterpillar at the most. 
When next we see him, wings he wears, 
And in papilio-pomp appears ; 
Becomes oviparous ; supplies 
With future worms and future flies, 
The next ensuing year ; — and dies ! 
Well were it for the world, if all, 
"Who creep about this earthly ball, 
Though shorter-liv'd than most he be. 
Were useful in their kind as he. 



(274 ) 



INNOCENS PRJEDATRIX. 

Sedula per campos nullo defessa labore, 

In cella ut stipet mella, vagatur apis, 
Purpureum vix florem opifex praetervolat unum, 

Innumeras inter quas alit hortus opes ; 
Herbula gramineis vix una innascitur agris, 

Thesauri unde aliquid non studiosa legil. 
A florc ad florem transit, mollique volando 

Delibat tactu suav^e quod intus habent. 
Omnia delibat. parce sed et omnia, furti, 

Ut ne vel minimum videris indicium; 
Omnia degustat tam parce, ut gratia nulla 

Floribus, ut nullus diminuatur odor. 
Non ita praedantur modice bruchique et erucae ; 

Non ista hortorum maxima pestis, avcs ; 
Non ita raptores corvi, quorum improba rostra 

- Deepoliant agros, effodiuntque sata. 
Succos immiscens succis, ita suaviter omnes 

Temperat, ut dederit chymia nulla pares. 
Vix furtum est illud, dicive injuria debet, 

Quod cera, et multo melle rependit apis. 



INNOCENT THIEF. 

Not a flower can be found in the fields, 
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure 

From the largest to leas^, but it yields 
To the bee. never wearied, a treasure. 



THE INNOCENT THIEF. 275 

Scarce any she quits unexplor'd, 

With a diligence truly exact : 
Yet, steal what she may for her hoard, 

Leaves evidence none of the fact. 

Her lucrative task she pursues, 

And pilfers with so much address, 
That none of their odour they lose, 

Nor charm by their beauty the less. 

Not thus inoffensively preys 

The canker-worm, indwelling foe ! 
His voracity not thus allays 

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 

The worm, more expensively fed, 

The pride of the garden devours ; 
And birds pick the seed from the bed, 

Still less to be spar'd than the flowers. 

But she with such delicate skill 

Her pillage so fits for her use. 
That the chymist in vain with his still 

Would labour the like to produce. 

Then grudge not her temperate meals, 

Nor a benefit blame as a theft ; 
Since, stole she not all that she steals, 

Neither honey nor wax would be loft. 



(276) 



DENNERI ANUS.* 

DocTOM anus artificem juste celebrata fatetur. 

Denneri pinxit quarn studiosa manus. 
Nee stupor est oculis, fronti nee ruga severa, 

Flaccida nee sulcis pendet utrinque gena. 
Nil habet illepidum, morosum, aut triste tabella 

Argentum capitis praster, anile nihil, 
Apparent nivei vitia) sub margine cani, 

Fila colorati qualia Seres habent ; 
Lanugo mentum, sed quas tenuissima, vestit, 

Mollisque, et qualis Persica mala tegit. 
Nulla vel e minimis fugiunt spiracula visum ; 

At neque lineolis de cutis ulla latet. 
Spectatum -veniunt, novitas quos allicit usquam, 

Quosque vel ingenii fama, vel artis amor. 
Adveniunt juvenes ; et anus si possit amari, 

Dennere, agnoscunt hoc meruisse tuam. 
Adveniunt hilares nymphse ; similemque senectam 

Tam pulchram et placidam dent sibi fata, rogant. 
Matronse adveniunt, vetulseque fatentur in ore 

Quod nihil horrendum, ridiculumve vident. 
Quantus honos arti, per quam placet ipsa senectus : 

Quae facit, ut nymphis invideatur anus ! 
Pictori cedit quee gloria, cum nee Apelli 

Majorem famam det Cytherea suo ! 

* Diu publico fuit spectaculo egregia hsec tabula in area 
Palatina exteriori, juxta fanum Westmonastre riense. 



( 277 ) 



DENNER'S OLD WOMAN. 

In this mimick form of a matron in years, 
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears 
The matron herself, in whose old age we see 
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low, 
No wrinkle, or deep furrow'd frown on the brow ! 
Her forehead indeed is here circled around 
With locks like the ribbon, with which they are 

bound ; 
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin 
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin ; 
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe. 
Or that indicates life in its winter — is here. 
Yet all is express'd, with fidelity due. 
Nor a pimple, nor freckle, conceal'd from the view. 

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste 
For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste ; 
The youths all agree, that could old age inspire 
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, 
And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they see 
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee. 
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline, 
O wonderful woman ! as placid as thine. 

Strange magick of art I which the youth can engage 
To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age ; 
And force from the virgin a sigli of despair, 
That she when as old, shall be equally fair ! 
How great is the glory, that Denner has gain'd, 
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd ' 

Vol. hi. 24 



(278) 



LACRYMiE PICTORIS. 

Infantem audivit puerum, sua gaudia, Apelles 

Intempestivo fato obiisse diem. 
Ille, licet tristi perculsus imagine mortis, 

Proferri in medium corpus inane jubet, 
Et calamum, et succos poscens, " Hos accipe luctus, 

" Mcerorem hunc," dixit, '' nate, parentis habe '" 
Dixit ; et, ut clausit, clauses depinxit ocellos ; 

Officio pariter fidus utrique pater : 
Frontemque et crines, nee adhuc pallentia formans 

Oscula, adumbravit lugubre pictor opus 
Perge parens, moerendo tuos expendere luctus ; 

Nondum opus absolvit triste suprema manus. 
Vidit adhuc moUes genitor super oscula risus ; 

Vidit adhuc veneres irrubuisse genis, 
Et teneras raptim veneres, blandosque lepores, 

Et tacitos risus transtulit in tabulam. 
Pingendo desiste tuum signare dolorem ; 

Filioli longum vivet imago tui ; 
Vivet, et seterna vives tu laude, nee arte 

Vincendus pictor, nee pietate pater. 



THE 

TEARS OF A PAINTER. 

Apelles, hearing that his boy 
Had just expir'd — his only joy ! 
Although the sight with anguish tore him, 
Bade place his dear remains before him, 



— 



THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. 279 

He seiz'd his brush, his colours spread ; 
And — *' Oh ! my child, accept," — he said, 
" ('Tis all that 1 can now bestow,) 
" This tribute of a father's wo !" 
Then, faithful to the two-fold part, 
Both of his feelings and his art, 
He clos'd his eyes, with tender care, 
And form'd at once a fellow pair. 
His brow, with amber locks beset. 
And lips he drew, not livid yet ; 
And shaded all, that he had done, 
To a just image of his son. 

Thus far is well. But view again, 
The cause of thy paternal pain ! 
Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 
It needs the last, last touches still. 
Again his pencil's pow'rs he tries, 
For on his lips a smile he spies ; 
And still his cheek, unfaded, shows 
The deepest damask of the rose. 
Then, heedless to the finish'd whole, 
With fondest eagerness he stole, 
Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
The cherub copied from the true. 

Now, painter, cease ! Thy task is done, 
Long lives this image of thy son ; 
Nor short liv'd shall the glory prove, 
Or of thy labour, or thy love. 



( 280 ) 

SPE FINIS. 

At) dextram, ad Icevara, porro, retro, itque, reditque, 

Deprensnm in laqueo quem labyrinthus habet, 
Et legit et relegit g-ressus, scse explicet unde, 

Perplexum quaerens unde revolvat iter. 
Sta modo, respira paulum, simul accipe filum ; 

Certius et melius non Ariadne dabit. 
Sic te, SIC solum exepdies errore , viarum 

Principium invenies, id tibi tin is erit. 

THE MAZE. 

From right to left, and to and fro. 
Caught in a labyrinth you go, 
And turn, and turn, and turn again, 
To solve the myst'ry, but in vain ; 
Stand still, and breathe, and take from me 
A clew, that soon shall set you free ! 
Not Ariadne, if you meet her, 
Herself could serve you with a better. 
You enter'd easily — find where 
And make, with ease, your exit there ! 



NEMO MISER NISI COMPARATUS. 

" Quis fuit infelix adeo ! quis perditus seque !" 

Conqueritur mcesto carmine tristis amans. 
Non novus hie questus, rarove auditus ; amantes 

Dese-rti et spreti mille queruntur idem. 
Fatum decantas quod tu miserabile, multus 

Deplorat, multo cum Corydone, Strephon, 
Si tua cum reliquis confertur amica puellis, 

Non ea vel sola est ferrea, tuve miser. 



(281 ) 

NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE 
SUFFERER. 

The lover, in melodious verses, 
His singular distress rehearses. 
Still closing with a rueful cry, 
" Was ever such a wretch as I ?" 
Yes ! Thousands have endur'd before 
All thy distress ; some, haply more 
Unnumber'd Corydons complain, 
And Strephons, of the like disdain ; 
And if thy Chloe be of steel, 
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel ; 
Not her alone that censure fits. 
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. 



LIMAX. 

Frondibus, et pomis, herbisque tenaciter hseret 
Limax, et secura portat ubique domum. 
j Tutus in hac sese occultat, si quando periclum 

! Imminet, aut subitse decidit imber aquce. 

j Cornua vel leviter tangas, se protinus in se 

Colligit, in proprios contrahiturque lares. 
Secum habitat quacunque habitat ; sibi tota supellex , 

Solae quas adamat, quasque requirit opes. 
Secum potat, edit, dormit ; sibi in tsdibus iisdeni 

Conviva et comes est, hospes et hospitium. 
Limaeem, quacuraque sict, quacumque moretur, 
Siquis eum qusrat, dixeris esse domi. 
24* 



( 282 ) 



THE SNAIL. 

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,' 
The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
As if he grew there, house and all 

Together 

Within that house secure he hides, 
When danger imminent betides 
Of storm, or other harm besides 

Of weather. 

Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
His self-collecting power is such, 
He shrinks into his house, with much 

Displeasure, 

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, 
Except liiraself has chattels none, 
Well satisfied to bo his own 

Whole treasure. 

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads 
Nor partner of his banquet needs. 
And if he meets one, only feeds 

The faster. 

Who seeks hira must be worse than blind, 
(He and his house are so combin'd,) 
If, finding it, he fails to find 

Its master 



( 283 ) 



EQUES ACADEMICUS. 

Calcari instniitur juvenis j geminove vel uno, 

Haud multum, aut ocreis cujus, et unde, refert ; 
Fors fortasse suo, fortasse aliunde, flagello ; 

Quantulacunque sui, pars tamen ipse sui. 
Sic rite armatus, quinis (et forte minoris) 

Conductum solidis scandere gestit equum. 
Leetus et impavidus qua fert fortuna (volantem 

Cernite) quadrupedem pungit et urget iter : 
Admisso cursu, per rura, per oppida fertur : 

Adlatrant catuli, multaque ridet anus. 
Jamque ferox plagis erecta ad verbera dextra 

Calce cruentata lassat utrumque latus. 
Impete sed tanto vixdum eonfecerit ille 

Millia propositas sexve novemve viae, 
Viribus absumptis, fessusque labore, caballus 

Sternit in immundum seque equitemque lutum 
Vectus iter peraget curru plaustrove viator ? 

Proh pudor et facinus ! cogitur ire pedes. 
Si, nee inexpertum, seniorern junior audis, 

Quae sint exiguse commoda disce mora9. 
Quara tibi praecipio, brevis est, sed regula certa ; 

Ocyus ut possis, pergere lentus eas ' 

THE CANTAB. 

With two spurs or one ; and no great matter which 
Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip, or a switch, 
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast, 
Paid part into hand ; — you must wait for the rest. 
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse, 
And out they both sally for better or worse ; 
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather, 
And in violent liaste to go not knowing whither ; 



284 THE SALAD. 

Through the fields and the towns, (see !) he scampers 

alone, 
And is look'd at, and laugh 'd at by old and by young, 
Till at length overspent, and his sides smear'd with 

blood, 
Down tumbles his horse, man and all, in the mud. 
In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route ? 
Oh ! scandalous fate ! he must do it on fijot. 

Young gentlemen hear ! I am older than you ! 
The advice that I give I have proved to be true. 
Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, 
The faster you ride, you're the longer about it. 



THE SALAD 

BY 

VIRGIL. 

[June 8tk, 1799.] 

The winter-night now well-nigh worn away, 
The wakeful cock proclaim 'd approaching day, 
"When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, 
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to provide 
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, 
By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook. 
And poking in the dark, explor'd the nook 
Where embers slept, with ashes heap'd around, 
And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found. 

It chane'd that from a brand beneath his nose, 
Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose ; 



THE SALAD 285 

When Irimming with ;i pin th" incrusted tow, 
And stooping it towards the coals belou', 
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite 
The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. 
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before 
The quiv'ring lamp, and opes his gvan'ry door. 
Small was his stock, but taking for the day, 
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, 
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand : 
Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat : 
And with a rubber, for that use design'd, 
Cleansing his mill within — begins to grind ; 
Each hand has its employ ; lab'ring amain, 
This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain. 
The stone revolving rapidly, now glows 
And the bruis'd corn a mealy current flows ; 
While he, to make his heavy labour light, 
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right ; 
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile 
His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. 
And now, " Dame Cybalc, come forth !" he cries, 
But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies. 

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving maid, 
Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd. 
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, 
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin. 
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, 
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. 
Such, summoned oft, she came ; at his command 
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, 
And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, 
Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream. 

The labours of the mill perform'd, a sieve 
The mingled flour and bran must next receive, 



286 THE SALAD. 

Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refin'd, 
And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. 
This done, at once, his future plain repast, 
Unleaven'd, on a shaven board he cast, 
With tepid lymph, first largely soak'd it all, 
Then gather 'd it with both hands to a ball. 
And spreading it again with both hands wide. 
With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied ; 
At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought, 
Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it ought, 
Becomes an orb — and quarter'd into shares, 
The faithful mark of just division bears. 
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, 
For Cybale before had swept the place, 
And there, with tiles and embers overspread, 
She leaves it — reeking in its sultry bed. 

Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone, 
His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own, 
But sedulous, not merely to subdue 
His hunger, but to please his palate too, 
Prepares more sav'ry food. His chimney-side 
Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried, 
And cook'd behind him ; but sufficient store 
Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore ; 
A broad round cheese, which, thro' its centre strung, 
With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung ; 
The prudent hero therefore with address, 
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. 

Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground. 
With weeds and osiers sparely girt around. 
Small was th-e spot, but lib'ral to produce : 
Nor wanted aught that serves a parent's use, 
A.nd sometimes ev'n the rich would borrow thence, 
Although its tillage was his sole expense, 
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceas'd, 
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 



THE SALAD. 287 

His debt of culture here he duly paid, 
And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, 
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds, 
And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
To turn, and wind, obedient to his will. 
There flourish'd star wort, and the branching beet, 
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet. 
The skirret and the leek's aspiring kind. 
The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind ! 
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, 
The lettuce, and the long huge bellied gourd ; 
But these (for none his appetite controll'd 
"With stricter sway) the thrifty rustick sold 
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, 
He bore them ever to the publick mart : 
Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load. 
Of cash well-earnd, he took his homeward road, 
Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home. 
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, 
Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed : 
On scallions slic'd, or with a sensual gust, 
On rockets — foul provocatives of lust 1 
Nor even shunn'd with smarting gums to press 
Nasturtium — pungent face-distorting mess ! 

Some such regale now also in his thought. 
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought ; 
There delving with his hands, he first displac'd 
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast ; 
The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls, 
And coriander last to these succeeds. 
That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds 

Plac'd near his sprightly fire he now demands 
The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; 



288 THE SALAD. 

When stripping all his garlick first, he tore 

Th' exteriour coats, and cast them on the floor, 

Then cast away with like contempt tlie skin, 

Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 

These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one, 

Rins'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone. 

Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, 

"With his injected herbs he cover'd these, 

And tucking with his left his t'mick tight, 

And seizing fast the pestle with his right, 

The garlick bruising first, he soon express'd, 

And mix'd the various juices of the rest. 

He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below, 

Lost in each other, their own pow'rs forego, 

And with the cheese in compound, to the sight 

Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. 

His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent. 

He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent. 

Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke, 

The trickling tears, cried " vengeance on the smoke.'' 

The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 

The pestle, but, in circles smooth and slow. 

With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills, 

Some drops of olive -oil he next instils. 

Then vinegar with caiition scarcely less, 

And gathering to a ball the medley mess. 

Last, with two fingers frugally applied, 

Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side. 

And thus complete in figure and in kind. 

Obtains at length the Salad he design'd. 

And now black Cybale before him stands, 
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, 
He glad receives it, chasing far away 
All fears of famiiie for the passing dty ; 
His legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head 
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led 
And yok'd his steers, a dull obedient pair, 
Then drove afield, and plung'd the pointed share 



( 289 ) 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 

[Begun AugiLst, 1799. J 



THE GEEEK OF JULIANUS. 

A Spartan, his companions slain, 

Alone from battle fled, 
His mother kindling with disdain 

That she had borne him, struck him dead ; 

For courage, and not birth alone, 
In Sparta, testifies a son ! 



THE SAME, BY PALAADAS. 

A Spartan, 'scaping from the fight, 
His mother met him in his flight, 
Upheld a faulchion to his breast. 
And thus the fugitive address'd : 

" Thou canst but live to blot w^ith shame 
Indelible thy mother's name, 
While ev'ry breath, that thou ahalt draw, 
Offends against thy country's law ; 
But, if thou perish by this hand, 
Myself indeed throughout the land, 
To my dishonour, shall be known 
The mother still of such a son ; 
But Sparta will be safe and free^ 
And that shall serve to comfort mo." 
Vol. Ill 25 



( 290 ) 



AN EPITAPH. 

My name-' my country — what are they to thee '* 
What, whether base or proud, my pedigree ' 
Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
Perhaps I fell below them all— what then ^ 
Suffice it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb — 
Thou know'st its use — it hides — no matter whom . 



ANOTHER. 



Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
With much hard labour in thy service worn ! 

He set the vines, that clothe yon ample plain, 
And he these olives, that the vale adorn. 

He fill'd with grain the glebe ; the rills he led 
Thro' this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs; 

Thou, therefore, earth 1 lie lightly on his head, 
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs. 



ANOTHER 

Painter, this likeness is too strong, 
And we shall mourn the dead too long. 



(291 ) 



ANOTHER. 



At threescore winters' end 1 died 
A cheerless being, sole and sad ; 

The nuptial knot I never tied, 
And wish my father never had. 



BY CALLIMACHUS. 

At morn we plac'd on his funeral bier, 
Young Menalippus ; and at eventide, 

Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
By her own hand liis blooming sister died. 

Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race. 
Annihilated by a double blow. 

Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t' embrace, 
And ail Cyrene sadden'd at his wo. 



ON MILTIADES. 

Mii.TiADF.s ' thy valour best 
(Although in every region known) 

Tlu» ineii of Persia ■•an attest, 
Taught by thyself at Marathon. 



( 292 ) 



ON AN INFANT. 

Bewail not much, my parents ! me, the prey 
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. 
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, 
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, 
Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew, 
Not many joys, my griefs were also few. 



BY HERACLIDES. 

In Cnidus born, the consort I became 
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. 
His bed I shar'd, nor piov'd a barren bride, 
But bore two children at a birth, and died. 
One child I leave to solace and uphold 
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old. 
And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear 
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 



ON THE REED. 

I WAS of late a barren plant, 
UselesSj insignificant, 
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore, 
A native of the marshy shore ; 
But gather'd for poetick use, 
And plung'd into a sable juice, 



TO HEALTH. 293 

Of which my modicum 1 sip, 
With narrow mouth and slender Hp, 
At once, although by nature dumb, 
All eloquent I have become, 
And speak with fluency untir'd, 
As if by PhcEbus' self inspir'd. 



Ho HEALTH. 

Eldest born of pow'rs divine ! 
Blest Hygeia 1 be it mine, 
To enjoy what thou canst give. 
And henceforth with thee to live. 
For in pow'r if pleasure be, 
Wealth, or num'rous progeny. 
Or in amorous embrace, 
Where no spy infests the place ; 
Or in aught that Heav'n bestows 
To alleviate human woes, 
When the weary heart despairs 
Of a respite from its cares ; 
These and ev'ry true delight 
Flourish only in thy sight ; 
And the sister Graces Three 
Owe, themselves, their youth to thee, 
Without whom we may possess 
Much, but never happiness. 
25* 



(294) 

OR 

THE ASTROLOGERS. 

Th' Astrologers did all alike presage 
My uncle's dying in extreme old age, 
One only disagreed. But he was wise, 
And spoke not, till he heard the fun'ral cries. 



AN OLD WOMAN. 

Mycilla dyed her locks, 'tis said ; 

But 'tis a foul aspersion. 
She buys them black ; they therefore need 

No subsequent immersion 



ON INVALIDS. 

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they, 
Who look for death, and fear it ev'ry day. 



( 295 ) 



ON FLATTERERS. 

No mischief worthier of our fear 

In nature can be found, 
Than friendship, in ostent sincere 

But hollow and unsound, 
For luU'd into a dangerous dream, 

We close iniold a foe, 
Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 

Th' inevitable blow. 



ON THE SWALLOW. 

Attick maid ! with honey fed, 

Bear'st thou to thy callow brooQ 

Yonder locust from the mead, 
Destin'd their delicious food ! 

Ye have kindred voices clear, 
Ye alike unfold the wing, 

Migrate hither, sojourn here, 

Both attendant on the spring ! 

Ah for pity drop the prize ; 

Let it not, with truth, be said, 
That a songster gasps and dies, 

That a songster may be fed. 



( 296 ) 



LATE ACaUIRED WEALTH. 

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes 
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour : 

Who naught enjoy'd, while young, deny'd the means, 
And nau£jht, when old, enjoy'd, deny'd the pow'r. 



A TRUE FRIEND. 

Hast thou a friend ? Thou hast indeed 

A rich and large supply. 
Treasure to serve your ev'ry need, 

Well manag'd, till you die. 



A BATH, BY PLATO. 

Did Cytherea to the skies 
From this pellucid lymph arise ? 
Or was it Cytherea's touch. 
When bathing here, that made it such. 



(297) 

ON 

A FOWLER, BY ISIODORUS. 

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, 
Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty, fare. 
No lordly patron's hand he deign 'd to kiss. 
Nor lux'ry knew, save liberty, nor bliss. 
Thrice thirty years he liv'd, and to his heirs 
His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snares. 



ON NIOBE. 

Charon ! receive a family on board. 
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl ) 

Apollo and Diana, for a word 
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 



ON A GOOD MAN. 

Trav'ller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 

Just cause of sorrow none in my decease, 
Who, dying, children's children left behind. 

And with one wife liv'd many years in peace : 
Three virtuous youths espous'd my daughters three, 

And oft their infants in my bosom lay, 
Nor saw I one, of all deriv'd from me, 

Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. 
Their duteous hands my fun'ral rites bestow 'd 

And me, by blameless manners fitted well 
To seek it, sent to the serene abode, 

Where shades of pious men for ever dwell. 



( 298 ) 



ON A MISER. 



They call thee rich — I deem thee poor, 
Since, if thou dar'st not use thy store, 
But sav'st it only for thine heirs, 
The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 



ANOTHER. 

A MISER, traversing his house, 
Espied, unusual there, a mouse, 
And thus his uninvited guest, 
Briskly inquisitive address'd : 
" Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it 
I owe this unexpected visit?" 
The mouse her host obliquely oy'd. 
And smiling, pleasantly replied, 
" Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard 
I come to lodge, and not to board." 



ANOTHER. 

Art thou some individual of a kind 
Long-liv'd by nature as the rook or hind ? 
Heap treasure then, for if thy need be such, 
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much. 
But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy breast 
This lust of treasure — folly at the best ! 
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb, 
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom ! 



( 299 ) 



FEMALE INCONSTANCY. 

Rich, thou hadst many lovers — poor hast none, 
So surely want extinguishes the flame ; 

And she who call'd thee once her pretty one, 
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. 

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where 
In what strange country can thy parents live, 

Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware 
That want's a crime no woman can forgive ? 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy songster, pcrch'd above, 
On the summit of the grove. 
Whom a dew drop cheers to sing, 
With the freedom of a king. 
From thy perch survey the fields 
Where prolifick nature yields 
Nought, that, willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or hate, 
None thy pleasures can create 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of spring, 
Herald of the genial hours, 
Harming neither herbs nor flow'is. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly, thou and he are friends ; 



300 TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES 

Nor thy never ceasing strains 
Phoebus or the muse disdains 
As too simple or too long, 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, 
Ever singing, sporting, playing, 
What has nature else to show 
Godlike in his kind as thou ? 



ON HERMOCRATIA. 

Hermocratia nam'd save only one— — 

Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none : 
For neither Phcebus pierc'd my thriving joys, 

Nor Dian she my girls, or he my boys, 

But Dian rather, when my daughters lay 
In parturition, chas'd their pangs away, 
And all my sons, by Phosbus' bounty shar'd 
A vig'rous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. 
O Niobe ! far less prolifick ! see 
Thy boast against Latona sham'd by me • 



FROM MENANDER. 

Fond youth ! who dream "st, that hoarded gold 

Is needful, not alone to pay 
For all thy various items sold, 

To serve the wants of every day j 

Bread, vinegar and oil, and meat, 
For sav'ry viands season'd high ; 

But somewhat more important yet 

I tell thee what ^t cannot buy. 



TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 301 

No treasure, hadst thou more araass'd, 

Than fame to Tantalus assign'd, 
Would save thee from a tomb at last, 

But thou must leave it all behind. 

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise 

Confide not vainly in thy store, 
However large much less despise 

Others comparatively poor j 

But in thy more exalted state 

A just and equal temper show, 
That all who see thee rich and great 

May deem thee worthy to be so. 



ON 

PALLAS, BATHLNG. 

FROM A HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS. 

NoK oils of balmy scent produce, 
Nor mirror for Minerva's use, 
Ye nymphs who lave her ; she, array 'd 
In genuine beauty scorns their aid. 
Not even when they left the skies 
To seek on Ida's head the prize 
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign. 
Or Pallas in the crystal plain 
Of Siraois' stream her locks to trace, 
Or in the mirror's polish'd face, 
Though Venus oft with anxious care 
Adjusted twice a single hair. 
Vol. III. 26 



(302) 



TO DEMOSTHENES. 

It flatters and deceives thy view, 
This mirror of ill poHsh'd ore ; 

For were it just, and told thee true, 

Thou wouldst consult it never more. 



SIMILAR CHARACTER. 

You give your cheeks a rosy stain. 
With washes die your hair, 

But paint and washes both are vain 
To give a youthful air. 

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, 
No labour will efface 'em, 

You wear a mask of smoothest oil, 
Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 

An art so fruitless then forsake. 

Which though you much excel in, 

You never can contrive to make 
Old Hecuba young Helen 



( 303 ) 



ON AN UGLY FELLOW. 

Beware, my friend ! of crystal brook, 
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, 

Thy nose, thou chance to see ; 
Narcissus' fate would then be thine. 
And self-detested thou wouldst pine ; 

As self-enamour'd he. 



A BATTERED BEAUTY. 

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth, you buy 

A multifarious store ! 
A mask at once would all supply. 

Nor would it cost you more. 



ON A THIEF. 

When Aulus, the noctural thief, made prize 
Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, 
Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine. 
Who, when an infant, stole Apollo's kine, 
And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
Of our gymnastick sports, we planted here ; 
" Hermes," he cried, " you meet no new disaster 
Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master." 



( 304 ^ 
ON PEDIGREE. 

FROM EPICHARMUS. 

My mother, if thou 1 ve me, name no more 
My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
My noble birth ! thou kill'st me. Thither fly, 
As to their only refuge, all from whom 
Nature withholds all good besides ; they boast 
Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
Of their forefathers, and from age to age 
Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name, 
Deriv'd from no forefather ? Such a man 
Lives not ; for how could such be born at all ? 
And if it chance, that native of a land 
Far distant, or in infancy deprived 
Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace 
His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
From baser ancestry the u theirs, who can ? 
My mother ! he, whom nature at his birth 
Endow'd wHh virtuous qualities, although 
An iEthiop ana a slave, is nobly born. 



ON ENVY. 

Pity says the Theban bard, 
From my wishes I discard ; 
Envy, let me rather be, 
Rather far a theme for thee ! 
Pity to distress is shown, 
Envy to the great alone — 



TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 205 

So the Theban — But to shine 
Less conspicuous be mine ! 
I prefer the golden mean 
Pomp and penury between ; 
For alarm and peril wait 
Ever on the loftiest state, 
And the lowest, to the end, 
Obloquy and scorn attend. 



BY PHILEMON. 

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, 
And give them bulk, beyond what nature meant. 
A parent, brother, friend deceas'd, to cry — 
" He's dead indeed, but he was born to die — " 
Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
And burthen of the loss ; is just and wise. 
But to exclaim, " Ah ! wherefore was I born, 
" Thus to be left, for ever thus forlorn r" 
Who thus laments his loss invites distress. 
And magnifies a wo that might be less, 
Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, 
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 

26* 



(306) 



BY MOSCHUS. 

I SLEPT, when Venus enter'd : to ray bed 
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 
A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said ; 

" Shepherd, receive my little one ! I bring 
An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing." 
She said, and left him. I suspecting nought, 
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, 
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound. 
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound, 
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the choir 
Of Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. 
Such were my themes ; my themes nought heeded he. 
But ditties sang of am'rous sort to me, 
The pangs, that mortals and immortals prove 
From Venus' influence, and the darts of love. 
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 
His lessons I retain'd, and mine forgot. 



(307) 
EPIGRAMS, 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 



IN IGNORANTEM ARROGANTEM LINUM 

Captivum, Line, te tenet ignorantia duplex. 
Scis nihil, et nescis te quoque scire nihil. 

ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT. 

Thou mayest of double ign'rance boast, 
Who know'st not, that thou nothing know'st. 

PRUDENS SIMPLICITAS. 

Ut nulli nocuisse velis, imitare columbam : 
Serpentem, ut possit nemo re cere tibi. 

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY. 

That thou mayest injure no man, dove-like be, 
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee 1 

AD AMICUM PAUPEREM. 

Est male nunc ? Utinam in pejus sors omnia vertat ; 
Succedunt summis optima saepe malis. 

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 

I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend ; 
Foi when at worst they say, things always mend. 



( 308 ) 



Omnia me dum junior essera, scire putabam : 
Quo scio plus, hoc mo nunc scio scire minus 



When little more than boy in age, 
I deem'd myself almost a sage ; 
But now seem worthier to be styl'd 
For ignorance — almost a child. 



LEX TALIONIS. 

Majorum nunquam, Aule, legis monumenta tuorum 
Mirum est, posteritas si tua scripta legat. 

RETALIATION. 

The works of ancient bards divine, 

Aulus, thou scorn'st to read ; 
And should posterity read thine, 

It would be strange indeed ' 

DE ORTU ET OCCASU. 

Sole oriente, tui reditus a morte memento ! 
Sis mernor occasus. sole cadente, tui ! 



SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 

Contemplate, when the sun declines, 
Thy death, with deep reflection ; 

And when again he rising shines, 
Thy day of resurrection ! 



( 309 ) 
TRANSLATIONS 

FROM 



THE FABLES OF GAY* 



LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS. 

Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit, 
Siniplice ni nexus foedere, lusus amor. 

Incerto genitore puer, non saepe paternse 
Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : 

Quique sibi fidos fore multos sperat araicos, 
Mirum est, huic misero si ferat ullus opem. 

Oomis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. 
Hie, quot in sylvis, et quot spatiantur in agris 

Quadrupedes, norat conciliare sibi ; 
Et quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam 

Labra tenus saltern fidus amicus erat. 
Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit, 

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, 
Venatorum audit clangores pone sequenttun, 

Fulraineumque sonum territus erro fugit. 
Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, 

Respicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem. 
Utque canes fallat late circumvagus^ illuc, 

Unde abiit, mira calliditate redit ; 
Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultro 

In media miserum semianimemque via. 
Wx ibi stratus, equi sonitura pedis audit, et, oh spe 

Quam lELta adventu cor agitatur equi ! 
Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoque 

Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum. 



310 TRANSLATIONS FROM GAY. 

Me raeus, ut nosti, pes prodit iidus amicus 

Fert quodcunque lubens, nee grave sentit, onus. 
Belle raiselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amara 

Omnia quae tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi. 
Verum age — sume animos — multi. me pone, bonique 

Adveniunt, quorum sis cito salvus ope. 
Proximus armenti dominus bos sollicitatus 

Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat. 
Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus amicum 

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi. 
Libertatc sequus, quam cedit amicus amico, 

Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam ; 
Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis acervuna 

Me mea, prae cunctis chara, juvenca manet ; 
Et quis non ultro qucBcunquc negotia linquit, 

Pareat ut dominse, cum vocat ipsa, suae .'' 
Neu me crudelem dicas — discedo — sed hircus, 

Cujus ope efFugias integer, hircus adest. [languent .' 
Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca ut lumina 

Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet ! 
Hirsutum mihi tergum ; et forsan laeserit aegrum, 

Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit. 
Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelans 

Sustineo lanae pondera tanta meae ; 
Me nee velocem nee fortem jacto, solentque 

Nos etiam saevi dilacerare canes. 
Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur 

Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. 
Remne ego, respondet vitulus, suscepero tantam, 

Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri .-* 
Te, quem maturi canibus validique relinquunt, 

Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego .-' 
Praetcrea toUens quem illi aversantur, amicis 

Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. 
Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur 

Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
Ecce autcm ad calces canis est ! te quanta perempto 

Tristitia est nobis in^cruitura ! Vale ! 



( 311 ) 



AVARUS ET PLUTUS. 

IcTA fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 

Ex somno trepidus surgit, opumque memor. 
Lata silenter numi ponit vestigia, quemque 

Respicit ad sonitura respiciensque tremit ; 
Angustissima quajque foramina lampade visit, 

Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque manum. 
Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcam 

Exultansque oranes conspicit intus opes. 
Sad tandem furiis ultricibus actus ob artes 

Quels sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. 
Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans 

Aurum oxecratur, perniciemque vocat ; 
O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, 

Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum ! 
Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 

Quid contra vitii termina saeva valet ? 
O inimicum aurum ! O homini infestissima pestls, 

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas ? 
Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum 
est, 

Et praeter nomen nil retinere boni 
Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; 

Aurum nocturnis furibus arma dedit 
Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit. 

Foedifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos. 
Nee vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum 

Ex malesuada auri sacrilegaque fame 
Dixit et ingemuit ; Plutusque suum sibi numen 

Ante oculos, ira fervidus, ipse stetit. 
Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis 

Ostendens ; tremulum sic Deus increpuit. 
Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, opstrepis aures ? 

Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit. 



312 TRANSLATIONS FROM GAY. 

Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe ? Culpa, 

Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 
Mene execrandura censes, quia tam pretiosa 

Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis ? 
Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus 

Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. 
Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum 

Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. 
Hinc, nimiura dum latro aurum detrudit in arcara, 

Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. 
Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendcrc adunco 

Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet. 
Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar 

Roris dilapsi ex aethere cuncta beat : 
Turn, quasi nuraen inesset, alit, fovit, educat orbos, 

Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat 
Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus, 

Aurum animsB pretium qui cupit atque capit ? 
Lege pari gladium incuse t sicarius atrox 

C8BS0 homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum. 



PAPILIO ET LIMAX. 

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigie surgit, 
Nativae Bordes, quicquid agatur, olet. 



THE END. 






